


These Kids I've Known All My Life

by Mae (mae1505)



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Abuse, Bullying, Crushing, Cyberbullying, Depressing, Depression, Drugs, Expectations, Falling Apart, Fat Shaming, First Kiss, First Love, Forgery, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Heather Chandler's backstory, Heather Mac's backstory, Homophobic comments, Loneliness, Losing a friend, Nudes, Obession, Other, Pressure, Regret, Rejection, Set when she's 11, Severe Depression, Shame, Suicidal Thoughts, Then along comes Duke's backstory, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Veronica's backstory, Very depressing, WELCOME TO A LOT OF BAD FEELINGS Y'ALL, a bit of cheating, abuse from parents, alcoholic mothers, and then chandler like, bad body image, duke being obsessed with chandler, faking a smile, friendships, hating yourself, hidingthe fact that you're gay, homophobic, homophobic parents, i mean i guess its canon compliant?, more parental abuse, never feeling happy, parents forcing you, ruling everyone, scared kids, the start of the heathers basically, those summarise martha kurt and ram, trying to be happy, wanting to break free
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2020-11-25 21:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20919053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mae1505/pseuds/Mae
Summary: Haven't you ever wanted to know how the Kingdom of Heather Chandler formed? The lives she ruined in the process? The effects that would last forever - or at least until somebody killed you with drain cleaner.Well boy, do I have a story for you...(Backstory of the Heather's, plus a few more peeps)





	1. Red, The Blood Of Angry Men

**Author's Note:**

> So this is part one of my series to explore the backstory of all the Heather's characters except JD, because he doesn't live in Westerburg and I'm trying to tie them all together and well that would be a bit hard if JD's halfway across the country. Also I've read a great JD backstory fic and I know I'd end up stealing ideas so yeah.
> 
> Welcome to Heather Chandler's life, set when she's 11 and 12 years old.

**15/1/1983, Heather is 11**

The house was always filled with screaming. Screaming or yelling. 

Heather would bury her head in a pillow, but that rarely drowned out the noise. And the nights that weren’t filled with commotion were the worst, somehow.

Heather hated it all. She hated that her parents were so rich they could afford to buy her a car already and that she had two TV's and yet they still didn’t speak to her. She didn’t have any control over her life, because her parents paid for everything and she hated them most of all.

She hated them when she unwrapped a red backpack for christmas and her mum was too busy getting drunk to notice. She hated them when she _ finally _ got the gold star in her class and her dad was too busy doing somebody that wasn’t her mother to pay attention.

She hated all the things she knew that she didn’t want to know. She hated that she didn’t have friends - no, not that she didn’t have friends, that she didn’t have anybody to control and make beautiful in the way she wanted. 

She hated all the things she could remember. Age 7, watching her mum lose her job because she turned up to work blind drunk - fucking hell, she hated that she knew what blind drunk meant. That she knew how to _ swear _.

She hated the screams that followed. Voices trailing up the stairs, telling her all the things she didn’t want to know; her mum wasting her college fund on alcohol, her mum stocking the cupboards with bottles of wine she drank in a week, her mum collapsing, her mum causing them two thousand dollars in hospital bills. 

Age 9, walking into the living room to find her dad making out - christ, she even knew what that meant _ and _ what it led to - with some red-haired chick when her mum had big blonde curls. Her father swearing her to secrecy.

And then she hated that her father hadn’t noticed her in his bedroom doorway as he ripped the clothes off of a brunette…

And then she’d stayed and watched, silently crying, and she hadn’t cried ever since.

**27/1/1983, Heather is 11**

Heather would sit on the corner of the sandpit and watch everybody - and hate everyone who played whilst she stared. The little girl with the big blue bow who was reading some sort of book that quite frankly looked too much effort to ever do for pleasure. The fat girl who played hopscotch and honestly looked absolutely ridiculous doing it because she was fat and jumping. The boys who kicked a football and laughed at everyone. 

They did this every day? Didn’t they get bored?

Heather bloody well did. She got bored of staring. Of the same old routine. She wanted somebody to shake things up, she wanted to be the _ one _ who shook things up…

But for now, the only thing she could control was the routine.

She looked for the two little girls who laughed and ran around just behind the sandpit. Heather had the same name as the one who came in one day with her nails painted bright yellow…

Age 10, Heather McNamara came in with yellow nails, so Heather came in with red ones and everybody liked her better for a week. 

But that girl wasn’t here today, so whatever-her-name-was sat by herself, drawing.

_ And she still looked happy in her solitude. _

How dare she be so happy when she was alone just like Heather?

She should feel sad. She should go and join the fat one who called her over - oh, so her name was Tricia - instead of just fucking _ smiling _ and picking up a rubber. 

She should be sad. Heather would _ make _ her sad.

“Is it Tricia?” Heather squatted down in front of the raven-haired girl, smiling when she felt like screaming. 

Tricia smiled, and in that moment Heather tasted pain and victory together for the first time…

And she knew she’d never stop craving that taste.

**14/2/1983, Heather is 11**

“Hey, hey Tricia, why are you ignoring me?” Heather dug her fingers into the little girls wrist, who by now knew better than to cry out in pain. “Everybody says you’re ignoring me? Do you have a bone to pick?”

“N, no, Heather.” There were tears in Tricia’s eyes already. God, this was so fucking _ easy _. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“But we’re friends, aren’t we?” Heather put on that smirk she's perfected in the mirror - somehow when she was imagining the pain in Tricia’s face, the shouting and the other noises all faded away - and gripped her wrist even tighter. “Why would you ignore me? It’s mean. You shouldn't be mean to your friends.”

“I’m not, I’m not ignoring you -” Tricia started trembling as Heather reached over and swiped the tear off of her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Heather let go, and Tricia started to move away, trying to stop the tears. “That’s good. Because you’re lucky I am your friend, you know? Nobody else would be. Because you’re _ fat _ . And _ ugly _ . And _ fucking stupid _ . I’m the only person who’ll _ ever _ be your friend, so you should be happy. You should _ love _ me…

“Because after all, I’m the only person who could ever love _ you _.”

And then Heather walked away, with the bittersweet taste of bloodshed on her lips. 

**16/2/1983, Heather is 11**

“Mummy, why do people cry?” 

For once, her mum was slightly sober, and Heather would make use of it. People were meant to ask stuff from their mum, after all.

“Oh, Heather, they cry because they’re in pain. Because other people were mean to them. Why? Are people being mean to you?” Her mum looked at the little girl with pigtails tied in red ribbons as she sat up on the kitchen side next to the half-drunk wine glass, a look of vague concern in her eyes.

“No mummy, I think I’m making somebody cry.” Heather absently picked at her nails as her mother refilled the wine glass.

“Why, Heather?”

“Because she’s _ fat _ . And _ ugly _.” And it made me mad when she was happy alone and I was sad alone, she wanted to add. But she didn’t, because she didn’t trust her mum.

Her mum wasn’t really a mum, though. 

Heather had watched, out of the windows of the cab her parents called for her, the other children and _ their _ mothers. The mothers who hugged you when you cried, instead of just passing over a box of tissues. The mothers who took your bags at the end of the day instead of knocking it off your back when they passed by looking for a beer. The mothers who _ cared _.

But Heather didn’t love her mum, and her mum didn’t love her, so at least their relationship was even.

She wondered what those other mothers would say. Would they tell her off? Would they call Tricia’s parents and apologise?

Heather was actually glad she would never know. Because that’s not what her mum said.

“Oh well, that’s alright then.” Her mum patted Heathers curls and walked away. “Fat girls need to learn their place. Pretty is better.”

Pretty is better…

**23/2/1983, Heather is 11**

“Tricia, Tricia!” The little girl turned with something different in her eyes, but Heather didn’t care.

“What do you think of my hair?” She’d got her dad to hire somebody to straighten out her curls and lengthen her eyelashes and generally make her_ prettier _, because her mum was actually right about something, for once. The world is made for a pretty girl.

No, a pretty girl can make the world.

“You like? I could do the same thing for you, if you want. But it won’t look as good, because you’re ugly-”

“JUST SHUT UP HEATHER!” Tricia screamed, her hands balled into fists. “You’re wrong! I am pretty! My mum said I was! And you’re just a bully! We’re not friends! And I’m gonna tell on you! I really will! Because _ you’re _ ugly!”

And Heather didn’t know what to do, because she never expected the weak little bitch to stand up to her.

Tricia smiled at Heather’s shocked face, and that _ really _ made her mad. How _ dare _ that girl think she could taste victory too? 

_ How fucking dare she? _

“Hey, you little shit.” her voice was quiet, calm, but she had her fist balled in the top of Tricia’s pretty red dress, and her eyes were glowing with anger. “Parents lie? Didn’t you know that? They just want you to feel good about yourself so that you aren’t crying all the time and then they don’t have to deal with you. If you believe their lies, then you’re happy, and they can go off getting drunk and high and fucking people and leave you by yourself until you grow up and realise they were _ wrong _ because you’re not pretty, you’re just a _ fool _.”

And the taste of victory on Tricia’s lips gave way to the salt of tears.

“And by the way,” Heather flicked her hair over her shoulder and grinned. “Red is my colour. Don’t wear it again.”

**3/3/1983, Heather is 11**

And low and behold, Tricia hadn’t ever worn red again.

**4/3/1983, Heather is 11**

Tricia was crying. Again. And if Heather was honest, she was tired of hearing the same sobs. They were boring, and Tricia would crinkle her face and her weird black fringe would fall over her eyes and she’d be so _ disgusting _ that Heather shouldn’t have to look at her.

So she wanted new prey.

The fat girl should have been easy, but she was annoyingly _ nice _ and she had that weird best friend who was really smart and Heather didn’t want to be mean to her just yet because she’d slapped that boy who called the fat one fat.

I mean, he was just trying to tell the truth, but Heather didn’t want to get slapped. It could mess up her mascara.

She probably wore too much makeup now, but she did have to stay pretty and it made the boys look at her, and their looks were what she liked. 

Then somebody tapped her on the shoulder.

She wheeled round, her scrunchie flying into her face as her braid fell back onto her shoulder, and she found herself staring into the face of Heather McNamara.

The girl with the blue bow looked up, because it was an unspoken playground rule now not the mess with Heather Chandler. Everybody knew what had happened to Tricia, hell, what was _ still _ happening to her.

“Heather McNamara? What the actual fuck is your damage?”

The girl crossed her arms and Heather noticed the chipped flecks of yellow polish on her nails, because everyone knew that nail polish was _ her _ thing.

Being feared was fun. She told herself that daily. It _ was _ fun, it was. 

“Heather, I, I want to talk to you. About Tricia.”

Oh.

She forgot that they were friends. Tricia didn’t really have friends anymore, but maybe McNamara had stayed by her side. That would have to be fixed, or she’d look bad, look weak…

“What about that little pussy? Not feeling sorry for her are you? She brought it on herself. Because she was so _ ugly _ and I was tired of looking at her.”

“Oh Heather, please!” Mac suddenly threw her arms around Heather, who was taken aback.

Who the actual _ fuck _ did this girl think she was?

“Please!” McNamara sobbed onto her shoulder. “Please stop being so mean to her. She’s so upset! And I can’t bear it!”

Heather glowered and walked away. Heather McNamara sobbed.

And the girl with the big blue bow closed her book, because something interesting was happening. 

**15/5/1983, Heather is 11**

Today was a victorious day. 

Tricia had left. She’d actually _ left _! Heather couldn’t believe it. Tricia was gone, which left so much fear at who would be next. 

Today was truly a good day.

When she told her mum about it, her mum had laughed. When she told her dad, he hadn’t been paying attention, but he patted her on the head. And her mum was gone last night, and her dad and what she thought was the mayor’s wife were quiet, so she could sleep.

She’d made out with Ram Sweeney behind the school and she hadn’t even had to tell herself that it was good because she’d actually enjoyed it. Her mum was obviously failing to keep her dad happy, so Heather should get as much experience as she could, right?

And now she didn’t sit on the sandpit, she stood at the gate and watched the other children play in a wide circle around her. She teased the fat girl. She laughed with the boys.

She was _ popular _.

“Heather.” Somebody said. She was expecting McNamara, but the voice was harder and stronger and smarter.

It was the girl with the blue bow.

“What’s your damage?” Heather sighed, turning away. 

“Well, I don’t really know about damage…” The girl walked to stand next to her and then handed her a book. Heather squinted at it.

The Bell Jar.

“Just a little something.” The girl smiled as Heather took it. “Please stop teasing Martha.”

“You think a book will make me nicer, huh?” Heather scoffed. “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, I thought you were smart.”

She’d heard her mum say that once, and she rather liked it.

“I have absolutely no idea what that means, but no. The book is just an incentive.” The girl nodded her head at the playground, and Heather noticed the gaggle of boys and girls. “If you want to bully anyone, bully her.”

Then the girl walked away into the throng of children. 

Heather eyed the book, but slipped it into her backpack. And then pushed her way through the crowd to find McNamara crying on a bench. 

“What the fuck?” She whispered to Kurt. He smirked, then threw a wad of paper at the little girl in the yellow sundress. “You should go join your friend McNamara! The scaredy-cat fat girl!”

All the other children laughed, and in that one moment Heather could see something with a strange sense of clarity.

At least, that’s what she told herself. Because she wasn’t feeling sorry for Heather, and she wasn’t guilty about Tricia.

She _ wasn’t _.

No, she could see the power that this little girl could bring. Heather and Heather. That had power. They could be the _ Heather’s _ \- oh, that was fucking golden. That was _ perfect _. 

And this little girl was nice, Heather knew that. She was generally well-liked before all of this, and she could easily be molded to fit whatever Heather wanted from her.

A queen should always have an heir, after all. 

And besides, scaredy-cat fat girl? That was ridiculous. What were they, four?

Heather elbowed Ram, and gave him a look. A queen should have a king? But mainly, the look said get these children under control.

He grinned.

“Alright y’all.” He drawled, making a space for Heather to push forwards until she stood in front of McNamara. The little girl sniffled, but stopped crying. 

“Beat it bitches.” Heather’s words made the crowd step back, just a little. “If you want to insult Heather, you insult me.” She could see the girl with the blue bow melt back into the edges of the playground with a slight smile. 

“The Heathers.” She heard somebody mutter. 

**17/5/1983** **, Heather is 11**

“Just ignore them both.” Heather swung her arm through McNamara’s as they walked through the Chandler mansion’s front door. “They’re not like your parents.” 

She managed to get McNamara past her mothers offering of a glass of wine (lately she’d been drinking a lot more wine, but McNamara probably wasn’t the sort for that) and through her dads mess of briefcases and business, eventually reaching the bedroom that over the last six months had slowly grown more red in colour. 

“We need to change you up.” Heather pushed McNamara in front of the mirror, frowning. “You’re not that fat, which is good. And I think yellow suits you, make it your colour. Your face isn’t that symmetrical, but makeup is a good fix. Here, put this on.”

And so McNamara ended up taking home twenty different yellow and white outfits, and Heather tried to pretend that she didn’t want a friend, that this was all she wanted.

**5/9/1983, Heather is 12**

“There’s a new girl, did you hear?” McNamara clung to Heather’s arm as they moved through the corridor.

Everyone was watching them. Like usual. 

“Why should I care?”

“Because! Her name is Heather!”

That stopped Heather short. 

**7/9/1983, Heather is 12**

“Over there, do you see?”

The new girl had never come in to school, she was to start next week, according to her dad. But Heather could make her out among the crowds of children playing at the park.

The bright green dress fluttered around the little girls knees as she sat, legs swinging, on the swings. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a bun. She studied everything with a sort of expectation in her eyes - some might say she was used to being looked at, but Heather knew she was just waiting for instruction.

Instruction that Heather was happy to provide. The new girl had watched Heather make another little girl leave in tears because she’d worn the same yellow dress as McNamara, and surely by now, after speaking to those other two on the swings, she knew who was walking over to her.

McNamara was smiling, but Heather was briefly distracted by the other girl who silently got off the swings and walked away. There was no big blue bow, but there was a white dress and blue socks, and Heather had to tear her eyes away.

“What are you going to do?” McNamara said quietly behind her. But Heather didn’t care to respond.

She smiled her most evangelical smile down at the girl in the green, who gazed up in wonder. “Heather Chandler.” She stuck out her red nails, and the girl slowly shook her hand. “I’m Heather Duke.”

Heather smiled. 

Maybe home was awful, but school could be her perfect kingdom.


	2. Somewhere That's Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather Duke is coming to town...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you may have noticed that I've turned this into a chapter thing rather than a series of one-shots. Mainly because it's a lot easier to just keep track of. 
> 
> Anyway, this is the just-as-depressing life of Heather Duke...

**9/9/1983, Heather is 11**

“I’m sorry Heather, but say goodbye to your friends. You’ll make new ones! You’re our sunshine, you’re so clever - who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?”

“It’s ok honey, I know you just got used to being here, but this move is permanent, I promise! You can make so many new, nice friends, you’ll be top of your class!”

Twice in the last year, Heather had uprooted. Because of her dad’s job, and then because of her mum’s job, and now they were supposedly better off for it.

Heather had liked her first school, because she’d known everyone there and she’d been ‘approved’. And that was what mattered, because if you were approved, you had friends. It was a shared relationship with her peers. They’d learnt to talk and write together, they knew everything about each other. There wasn’t really popularity, there was just the people you sit with at lunch. But then you hang out with everyone in lessons, because everyone was your friend.

She’d never even _ met _ a new girl, their town at the edge of Ohio was so unknown that nobody ever came along. 

But then she was the new girl, in a new town, and everyone knew each other but they didn’t know her. Plus, she had to try and understand popularity, who to talk to and who not to talk to and who just _ wouldn’t _ talk to you. That was life in Wadsworth, there were _ cliques _ now.

Heather tried to fit in, but whilst after a few weeks she was ‘approved’ as one of those girls who sit on the outskirts of popularity, she, for the first time, didn’t just want to be accepted. She didn’t _ just _ want friends. No, she saw the queen bee and she knew that she belonged up there.

She never got that chance in Wadsworth. But here in Sherwood, maybe she could have that chance. For once, she’d actually be starting the same as everyone else, going into Westerburg High School for the first time. Yes, they knew each other. But Sherwood was a backwards town, like her old one. Maybe cliques were just starting to form. She could worm her way in. 

And so she wore her favourite dress, the bright green one that her mum said made her look oh so pretty, and she tied her brown locks back into a bun, and she went off to the park, where she’d seen a lot of kids yesterday as she drove by. It was annoying that she couldn’t start till the second week, but it was better than starting five weeks till the summer holidays. 

But now that she was sitting on the swings with two girls she didn’t know, it seemed like things weren’t as she’d imagined them to be in Sherwood. 

For starters, all the boys playing football were clearly an unbreakable community of jocks, and all the boys watching them were classed as nerds, perverts or losers (Heather didn’t entirely know what pervert meant, she’d just heard a girl use it at her last school and deemed it to be an insult). Then you had the two girls everybody was watching.

One was in a yellow sundress, but she seemed shrunken, sitting on the roundabout with her hands in her lap. Heather only looked at her for a moment -

Because the girl in the red, with the big blonde curls and the perfect frown on her perfect crimson lips, seemed like something else entirely. She commanded the attention of everyone, from the boy sitting on the fence, watching the game, to the girl sobbing on the floor infront. A girl who, Heather noticed, was in the same dress as the one on the roundabout.

“Hey, who’s that?” Heather turned and asked the two girls on the other swings. The one in the dark blue dress laughed a little and ignored Heather, but the slightly chubbier one smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about them, if you just stay out of The Heather’s way then you’ll be fine.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Martha. Are you the new girl?”

“Erm, yes, I am.” Heather shook her hand, because it was still nice to have friends, especially ones with information. “Why did you call them The Heathers?”

“Because that’s who they are. Heather Chandler and Heather McNamara -”

But before Martha could finish, the other girl grabbed her hand and pulled her away suddenly. Heather frowned, but turned to look back at the two who were clearly the popular ones, and they had the same names as her so -

They were both walking towards her. Heather blinked in shock as she made eye contact with the yellow one, who smiled slightly, but then moved even further behind the red one, who was smiling like an archangel.

The yellow one muttered something that Heather didn’t catch, but the red one ignored her. And when she stuck her hand out to Heather, it wasn’t the hand of a child, it had manicured red nails and glowing skin and looked so much older. It made the girl look so much older.

“Heather Chandler.” The girl smirked, and Heather took her hand hesitantly. So if the red one was Chandler, then the yellow one must have been Heather McNamara.

“I’m Heather Duke.” Heather kept her voice steady but slightly submissive as she took Chandler’s hand, and she felt like this was the start of something.

**11/9/1983, Heather is 11**

Heather was sitting with her parents at the dinner table, but she wasn’t hungry even though there was a bowl heaped with spaghetti in front of her. 

“So honey, how’s school been going?” Her dad hung up the phone and started to dig into his food, so Heather followed suit.

“It’s been good daddy! I made two friends, and they’ve both got the same name as me.”

“So they’re both called Heather?” Her mum laughed. “How do you keep track?”

“It’s fine mum, I’m Duke, and then Heather McNamara is Heather Mac, and then Heather Chandler is just -”

“Heather Chandler?” Her dad’s voice changed, and her mum stopped rolling her spaghetti round her fork. They exchanged a look that Heather didn’t understand. “You’re friends with Heather Chandler?”

“Oh, you know her?” Heather smiled, maybe her parents had already met Heather’s parents, though she had said that her parents weren’t your usual sort one lunchtime, before she went off somewhere with Kurt Kelly. 

“Well, it’s just,” Heather’s mum looked uncomfortable. “I was talking to Maureen in the newsagents, and she said that she heard that Heather Chandler was a bit of a bully…”

“Well Maureen is lying!” Heather couldn’t believe it. Heather only punished people that deserved it…

A voice in the back of her told her to be very very careful. And for the first time, she found herself lying to her parents.

“Heather doesn’t bully anybody. Maybe Maureen heard about this girl who moved away last year, I think she was called Tricia or something, and she and Heather got into a fight because Mac, who used to be Tricia’s friend, wanted to be friends with Heather but Tricia didn’t want that, and people said that Heather made Tricia cry and that’s why Tricia moved away, but I think that Tricia just moved like we used to, for her parents jobs or something.”

Her dad reached over and patted her hand, smiling. “Well as long as you’re kind to all your classmates, honey. I’m glad you made friends so soon.”

**12/9/1983, Heather is 11**

It was three o’clock in the morning, and Heather couldn’t sleep. She was thinking about how, earlier that day, Heather had told her and Mac to come round her house on Friday after school, because she needed to teach Heather to wear makeup and give her the right clothes. 

And she was thinking about dinner, and how her mum reacted to hearing Heather Chandler’s name and how she wasn’t sure if Heather was telling the truth about Tricia, because even though Mac smiled and said that it was true, she’d looked sad when Heather turned away. 

And then she was thinking about how she wasn’t sure if her parents would have let her go to Heather’s, so she lied and said she’d been invited to McNamara’s instead. And her mum smiled and said of course she could go, and did she need to get picked up? And then Heather panicked and said it was fine, Mac didn’t live that far away, and then she thought about what her mum's reaction would have been if she’d told her the truth.

Then Heather decided to stop just lying in her undecorated bedroom and thinking, so she went downstairs and stole a cookie from the cookie jar and then heard voices when she came back upstairs. Her parents were still awake?

“We don’t need to worry about it honey. Just think about how good it is that she has friends, and you’ve already met the mother of that other girl, haven’t you? She seemed lovely.”

“I’m not worried about that, I’m worried that she’s friends with Heather Chandler. I already heard that some other girl left because she was being bullied, and you know that her mother is an alcoholic, you saw her yourself with two shopping bags filled with bottles! She could be a bad influence for Heather, you know.”

And Heather was very, very glad she hadn’t told the truth.

Besides, what even _ was _ an alcoholic?

**17/9/1983, Heather is 11**

Heather couldn’t believe her eyes.

Heather lived in a mansion! A proper mansion! Like some princess! There was a huge garden and a black gate and a stone driveway and it was all like some storybook. 

“Oh, you need to ignore her parents.” Mac whispered into her ear as they entered the hallway. Heather opened her mouth to ask a question, but then a woman in a white dressing gown with hair like Heather’s appeared through a door, a glass of wine in her hands. 

“This is Heather?” The woman gripped Heathers jaw and turned her face left and right, nodding to herself. “Oh, you could be so pretty dear.”

“Mother.” Heather kissed the woman's cheek and gestured Mac towards the stairs. “Wait in my room will you, McNamara?”

“Would you like a glass of wine Heather?” Heather’s mum smiled, and Heather felt very out of place. She didn’t think she’d even _ seen _ her mum drinking wine, and her dad had a bottle of beer very rarely, only when he was surrounded by paperwork at three at night - but it was actually a mug of coffee, more often than not. 

“Erm -”

“Call me Ms Chandler, honey.”

Heather looked over to Heather for approval, who was leaning on the staircase, with raised perfect eyebrows. She nodded, so Heather took the glass.

It actually tasted quite sweet.

“You know, I never let Mac have wine when she comes round.” Heather whispered with a big grin into Heather’s ear as they climbed the stairs. “You should feel special.”

And Heather did.

**29/9/1983, Heather is 11**

“You really shouldn’t have worn that dress today.” Heather sneered at Heather. “You look all frumpy.”

“B, but you gave it to me?” Heather looked down at herself, it was just another green dress.

“Well it’s not my fault you can’t make a dress look nice. You look ridiculous, doesn’t she look all fat like Martha Dumptruck? Doesn’t she, McNamara?”

McNamara just frowned and kept drinking her orange juice, and Heather felt her heart plummet. 

Wasn’t she special?

**9/10/1983, Heather is 11**

“Go on McNamara! Do it!”

But Mac shook her head. “What’s the point Heather? Martha doesn’t listen when you call her fat, plus, even my parents think you’re a bully…”

“You told your parents?” Heather cackled. “Oh, what did you tell them. That I made your stupid friend leave? That I turned you from fucking _ pathetic _to popular? Grow up Heather.”

This was her chance. Her chance to be ‘special’ again.

“My parents thought you bullied Tricia too.” Heather turned sharply to look at Heather as she pulled her brown hair back with a green scrunchie, then leant down to lace her gym trainers. “But I just told them that Tricia left for her dad’s job, and they believed me. They’re so dumb.”

It hurt to insult her parents, but she pushed the feeling of disappointment down with the power of Heather’s beautiful red smile. A smile that was for _ her _.

“See McNamara, that’s what you need to do. Heather listens to me. I bet she’d do it.”

They were the last girls in the changing rooms, apart from Martha Dumptruck, because her weird friend who liked books had left already, but Martha had a sprained ankle and was talking to the teacher.

“I, well, she’s injured, she won’t get changed.”

“Don’t be a pussy, go now and swap her clothes. Do it. Are you scared? Don’t make me regret praising you Heather.”

And so Heather stood up and grabbed the extra extra small spare kit from Heather’s hands, the last complete kid left in lost property, and quickly took Martha’s clothes and hid them in her bag, before stuffing the new kit into her bag.

Heather Chandler tipped her head back and laughed as Martha walked back in, getting ready to change, and Heather had to pretend she was looking for earring tape.

Then Chandler laughed even harder when they were inside and the teacher made Martha take off her jumper to reveal what was basically a crop top stretched round her body, and Heather laughed too and enjoyed being special again, instead of being guilty.

**28/12/1983, Heather is 11**

“But, why can’t I come with you?” Heather sat down at her kitchen table, phone in hand.

“Because,” Heather Chandler’s lilting voice drifted over the phone line, “Your parents are weird and don’t like me. McNamara’s parents said she could go, but your parents won’t even let you come round my fucking house. Why would they let you come to my new years party?”

“What about presents?”

“Jesus christ girl, you can give it to me when we go back to school, calm the fuck down. I’ll just buy you some green eyeshadow - come on Heather, why are you being such a baby?”

“I’m not being a baby!”

“Of course you’re not. Bye then.”

Was she still special?

**17/1/1984, Heather is 11**

There was a new girl, or half of a new girl. A french exchange student, McNamara had said. And she was very, very pretty. And also two years older than all of the Heather's. 

She seemed so mature.

Long glossy black hair, and a skirt almost as short as Heather’s. It was dark blue, and that seemed to be Hannah’s colour, much like Heather’s was green and Chandler’s was red and Mac’s was yellow.

Heather sipped her orange juice, and Mac did her homework, and Heather Chandler glowered from their center table.

“I do _ not _ like her.”

Mac and Heather glanced at each other. 

“I mean, fucking seriously, she has an accent and she wears short skirts. Nothing to jerk off too. She’s not even that pretty.”

Heather thought Hannah could have been almost as pretty as Heather Chandler, but she kept quiet.

Then Heather abruptly got up and stood in front of Hannah. “What is she doing?” Mac frowned. But they were too far away to hear.

And then Heather Chandler reached out her hand, and Heather looked down at her own slightly chipped green nails, and remembered how she’d felt powerful only four months ago, and she remembered being special, and she tried to hold on to that feeling.

**2/2/1984, Heather is 12**

Heather didn’t like Hannah.

She was always the favourite, the ‘special’ one, because she would do anything that was asked of her. And when it was her birthday, Mac brought her a new dress and Heather brought her nothing, but Hannah smiled a beautiful smile and handed her very expensive french perfume, and then somehow this made Chandler like her!

Heather really, really didn’t like Hannah.

Her name was stupid too.

**5/2/1984, Heather is 12**

“I mean, don’t you find her annoying.”

“She helps me in french study session after school."

Mac was walking home with Heather, because Chandler was staying behind with Hannah to do… something. They hadn’t bothered to share.

“But, like, doesn’t she strike you as -”

“Heather, what are you trying to say?” Mac frowned at her. “Are you just annoyed at Heather because she said you calling me Mac was childish. I don’t care what you call me, we’re friends, right?”

“Right. But she’s right, it is childish.” Mac sighed (goddammit that name was stuck in her head) and leaned her head on Heather’s shoulder. 

“Heather’s words aren’t the gospel truth, you know. And she is mean to you, sometimes.”

The big brown eyes were blinking up at her, and Heather felt something stir in her heart. 

But she ignored it.

**15/2/1984, Heather is 12**

Heather grabbed Heather’s arm and pulled her into a side cupboard as everybody else left for gym, laying a red finger over her lips.

“Listen up bitch. We need to get rid of Hannah.”

Heather sighed in relief, and Heather cocked her head and smiled. 

“I knew it, you hate her too.”

“Of course I do. Can’t you see that she's just trying to take my place?”

“I know! I tried to tell Mac, sorry, McNamara, but she didn’t believe me.”

“Well McNamara can be a dumb cunt sometimes.” Heather opened the door and they both went over to Hannah’s new gym locker. “That’s why I’m trusting you with this.”

Heather beamed with pride. She was trusted!

“Now,” Heather began to open up Hannah’s locker, “I heard some boy say that he’d ‘seen some sides of Hannah’, it was one of Kurt’s lot. And then I saw Hannah smiling behind the gym with him later, and by smiling I mean his hands were up her shirt.”

“No!”

“Yes!” They both giggled, and then Heather managed to work the lock free. 

They both peered inside.

There was Hannah’s bag, and her clothes, because after the Martha incident everyone put their clothes in their lockers, and right at the back was a thin brown envelope.

“This is it.” Heather tore open the top, and then pulled out five different photo strips.

Heather gasped.

It was Hannah, but she was clearly posing, maybe for that boy Heather had been talking about. In the first strip, she only had a shirt and pants on, but by the last strip, she was completely naked. 

Heather squealed. “Oh my god! This is perfect! And Hannah’s a _ catholic _!”

But then they heard a voice. 

“Heather? Heather? Are you in here? Coach assigned me as helper to your year today."

“Shit shit shit.” Heather closed the locker door and shoved the brown envelope inside Heather’s jumper pocket just before Hannah came into view. 

“Oh, hey Hannah.” Chandler smiled. “We’re looking for a protein shake, because Heather has cramps and I said I’d take a sip first, because she’s scared or something.” 

Heather forced a laugh, and she could tell that Hannah’s was forced too.

“You’re in luck Heather dear.” Hannah pushed past them and opened her locker, then reached into her bag. “I have just the drink for you!”

She held out a black flask, but it was in Heather Chandler’s direction. “Taste it for her, didn’t you say?”

“Course.” Heather sneered, and cast a look in Heather’s direction before tipping the cup back.

**17/2/1984, Heather is 12**

“What do you mean?”

It was Sunday evening, and Heather had run up out of the blue. Heather had been sitting on the sofa with her parents when the phone had run. 

“Exactly what I mother fucking said! That sneaky bitch put something in that shake, or hell, it was probably drain cleaner or something! I’ve been puking my guts out this entire weekend!”

“Holy hell.” Heather didn’t know what to say. So Heather had been right, Hannah was trying to take her place.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“She has to, but what can she do?”

“No wait! Didn’t she and Mac leave their bags over the weekend because they were practicing for cheer-leading tryouts.”

“Oh my god, Heather you’re a genius.” Heather felt her insides light up with pride again, she didn’t know why a compliment from Heather made her feel so much better than it did from anybody else, it was a feeling she couldn’t describe.

“So she might suspect, but -”

“No, there’s no way she could know. Thank god. So Heather, I need you to do something for me tomorrow. Listen very very closely, because I need to go throw up and I won’t be in school to tell you what to do.”

**18/2/1984, Heather is 12**

She’d done exactly what Heather said.

She told her mum that she’d forgotten about a science project, and the person on the phone last night had been her lab partner, and they were going to go to the library early monday morning so she could learn her part of the presentation. Heather had sat through the appropriate twenty seconds of scolding, the kiss on the cheek and then just left. Lying really was quite easy.

Then, she’d gone to Ram Sweeney’s house, which was conveniently right next to the library, and he’d cackled when he saw the pictures, then used his dads photocopier. Heather Chandler had called him last night too. 

And finally, she’d gone into school as soon as the gates opened for breakfast club or whatever it was called, but snuck away and put a copy of the photos through the slit in every locker. 

The fact that Heather had trusted her to do this was enough to get rid of most of the guilt. She didn’t really feel guilty for anybody anymore.

Besides, Hannah had literally poisoned Heather Chandler, and if Heather had managed to drink the shake before the gym teacher had come in, then she’d be puking her guts out too and Hannah would know they had her photos. McNamara would never have done this.

And now Hannah would leave, just like that bitch Tricia had done about a year ago.

Heather had swore without even realising it.

  
  


**3/3/1984, Heather is 12**

The three of them were walking home from school when Chandler had first seen it. She’d laughed and torn the poster off of the lamppost, then headed off with Kurt Kelly. McNamara had just gone home.

But the poster had landed in the puddle at Heather’s feet, and she’d stared at it for a very long time.

It was a picture of Hannah, back when she was in France, wearing a straw sunhat and smiling for the camera in-front of the Eiffel Tower. ‘Please help us bring Hannah home’ said the poster. ‘Help us rescue her from herself and her bullies’. There was a phone number in black ink at the bottom, black ink that smudged and swirled with the rainwater.

Heather reached into her bag and pulled out the note she’d found poked through her gym locker the day after Hannah ran away.

_ I know it was you, Heather. I know because Chandler was half dead from the drink I gave her and McNamara would never have done this. So why did you? Did you want this to happen? Are you so fucking desperate for attention that you’d do this? Christ Heather, I just wanted to be free. Free of Chandler. I thought you wanted the same thing too. I was perfectly happy to just ride out April in your little gang, but then my parents said that we were going to stay here, and I couldn’t do that. I hate my parents, hate them. Did Chandler tell you I was Catholic? No, my dad is. Why do you think I got in the position to take those photos in the first place? Hell, why do you think I have them? Because I regretted it and I made that cock promise he’d give them to me or I’d tell everyone he was a homo and wouldn’t even kiss me. I needed to get rid of them. But then you did this. Thanks, stranger. Thanks for ruining my life. _

And so Heather dropped the note into the puddle, sat on the curb and sobbed.

And she thanked a stranger for ruining her life. A stranger in a red dress. A stranger in a yellow one who was everything good. 

And she thanked that stranger in the blue dress for walking away with Martha and not warning her what was to come. 

_ Thanks stranger. Thanks for letting us rule... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I did promise depression and I WARNED YOU ALL. Just read the tags...
> 
> Who am I kidding even I don't read the tags.
> 
> But ok, the next chapter is for Mac. And I'm warning you now, there's depression. And suicidal thoughts. It's the worst one so far, and I feel like you deserve to be forewarned. Also (I'll say this next time too) I would just like to point out that none of this comes from personal experience. Apart from possibly Veronica's, but that's later. I've never felt like this, but I know many people do, and I also know that these characters do too, even if that suicide note from Chandler is fake I do like to think of it as real. 
> 
> So I hope I did them justice.
> 
> [ say hi :) ](http://scones-and-slushies.tumblr.com/)  
x


	3. From Far Across A Yellow Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nice on the outside, but hiding a rotten core...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SERIOUS TRIGGER WARNINGS:
> 
> suicidal thoughts  
depression  
self-harming  
bullying 
> 
> Not joking here, this chapter deals with some serious stuff that can really screw up anybody's life. If you're triggered or affected by any of the things mentioned in the warning, don't read this chapter.
> 
> Once again: suicidal thoughts, depression, self-harming and bullying.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER IS FROM HEATHER MACS POINT OF VIEW

**14/2/1983, Heather is 11**

There was something wrong with Tricia. For a start, she wasn't wearing her friendship bracelet.

It had been going on for a few weeks now. She wouldn't be able to find Tricia before school, and then she'd always be sniffly in first lesson. Never in the mood to play like before at lunch, she just wanted to draw.

Heather didn't know what to do. So she dropped her yellow rucksack down next to Martha and Veronica.

“Hey Heather. What's up? Is Tricia not here or something? Do you need anything?” 

Martha was a very chatty person, and really really nice. She partnered up with Heather in art a lot because Veronica was in a different group with Tricia. But whilst Martha was lovely, she wouldn't be able to help Heather.

“Actually, yeah. Can I, erm, just talk to Veronica for a minute?” 

“Alone,” She clarified, when Martha moved to swap seats with her. “It's nothing against you, I just -"

“You need some advice, right? No juice, I'll go see if any of the teachers need help.”

“The saying is 'no sweat' Martha.” Veronica suddenly blurted out, making Heather jump. Martha just laughed and headed off.

Then Heather was alone, and she didn't know what to say.

Veronica closed her book and raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh! Ok, erm, well, it's actually about Tricia.”

“Why are you coming to me to ask for advice about _ your _ best friend?”Veronica frowned.

“No, well, it's just, something is different with her.” Heather twisted her hands in her lap, feeling more awkward with every passing second. “I can't really explain it, but she's quieter, and she's never here before school but, well, I mean, she's _ here _, but not with me. And I think she's been crying, and I know you see a lot, so I was just wondering if you had...seen. Anything?”

“Oh, she's been with Heather Chandler before school.” Veronica said matter-of-factly, opening her book. "Chandler's probably being mean to her or something, but it'll pass I'm sure.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess.” Heather stood, and if Veronica didn't think it was important, then she shouldn't be so worried. Veronica was a lot smarter than her after all.

Maybe Tricia and Heather were working on a project or something and they kept arguing over it. Neither of them were in her art class after all, yeah that was probably it.

The paranoid feeling in her stomach was just stupid.

**23/2/1983, Heather is 11**

“Tricia! Tricia!” Heather chased after the bright red dress, because she'd seen Heather Chandler walk off looking angry and sad and happy all at the same time, and then she'd heard somebody crying.

“Wait! Tricia!” Heather grabbed the other girl's arm, forcing her to stop. But Tricia didn't turn around, and she was sniffling.

“What's the matter, Tricia?”

And then Heather got slapped around the face. 

Tricia was glaring at her with tears running down her cheeks, eyes bright and angry. Heather slowly raised her hand up to her face in shock.

“What's the matter? What's the _ matter _? I'll tell you what's the matter, Heather, the matter is you! You're a terrible friend!”

“Wait, what?” Heather was shocked. And a little bit angry. “I've been asking if you were ok for weeks now, and you just keep ignoring me.”

“Try a little harder, huh?” Tricia snarled. “You can't even see how horrible everybody here is. You're just naive and Martha's a pushover and Veronica a freak that sits there and stares at you and Ram Sweeney is a bastard and Heather Chandler, she, she…”

Tricia let out a massive sob, and Heather pulled her into a hug. “Talk to me, Tricia! Tell me what's wrong! I can help you! What's Heather been saying?”

But Tricia just pulled away and shook her head, black bob shaking. “I'm going home.” She mumbled, then ran away, leaving Heather standing alone in the middle of the playground.

She started to cry. 

Because what was she supposed to do? Everything was horrible, and now Tricia hated her for no reason!

Heather gulped, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

She didn't know what to do anymore.

Why did she have to grow up? She didn't want to…

**14/5/1983, Heather is 11**

There was a letter waiting on her kitchen table when she got home. But first she had to go through the process of lying to her parents about her day.

She wasn't even sure how her evening ritual had started, but ever since Heather Chandler had made her rip up Betty Finn's notes in science Heather had realised that her current activities in school, much as she over through them like a robot, weren't what her parents would approve of.

And so the lying began.

But it ended quickly, and she ran upstairs with the letter, tearing it open on her yellow duvet gifted by Heather Chandler. 

It was empty of paper, but when she tipped it, out fell a woven string of pink and purple. The matching half to her friendship bracelet.

Heather choked back a sob. 

Tricia really was gone, then.

“Buttercup, your friend is on the phone!” She'd managed to convince her parents that Heather Chandler really was a nice person with bad parents, and that she was helping her to grow into a decent human.

But that couldn't be further from the truth.

Except, well...Heather really was all that she had now.

“Anything interesting happen at home, Mac? I'm calling from my parents car, they dragged me to a dinner party.”

“Actually, yeah.” Heather bit her lip to stop it trembling. “Tricia sent -"

“Tricia? Oh, that's boring,” She could picture Heather's raised eyebrows on the other side of the phone, lips pursed and smirking. “Tell me something else Mac.”

“Erm, well, I saw that nerd Kurt walking home with Keris Mell.”

“Oooh. Tell me more.”

**7/9/1983, Heather is 11**

It was Tricia's birthday today.

She'd realised it as she woke up.

But Tricia was gone. She'd been gone for a while. And sometimes Heather would forget, she'd be caught up in some drama that Heather Chandler had created. 

Most days, though, the guilt of what had happened would eat away at her very being, Heather was sure that growing up wasn't meant to feel like this, but often it seemed as though she'd missed a step and been pulled right into a twisted form of maturity by Heather.

Normally she didn't think like this when she was around Heather Chandler. Her best friend could sniff out a bad mood like a bloodhound, and then the rest of the day would just be horrible. 

Today, though, she'd spent an hour taking apart both of the friendship bracelets and painstakingly woven them into a necklace, then tucked it under her dress. 

It felt like a memorial, and the rough string was itching her neck but she couldn't scratch it or Heather would notice. 

It was a horrible day. A girl had cried because she was wearing the same dress as Heather. She herself had cried earlier.

And she felt like crying again when she looked at her 'best friend'.

There weren't many good moments. A smile never lasted long, a praise could so easily become punishment. And there was nobody else to talk to, because everybody was so afraid of the Heather's. Even Martha was distant when Heather managed to speak to her without Heather Chandler noticing.  
  
Then Heather saw _ her _.

Sitting on the swings, looking at everyone. Her brown hair pulled back in a bun, bright green dress glowing in the summer sky.

The new girl. Heather Duke.

And in that moment, Heather hated her.

Why did she get to be new and happy whilst Heather had to suffer? They had the same name, and she knew that Heather Chandler was planning something for when they got back to school, but that was two days away. And she couldn't wait that long.

Surely the suffering could be shared?

“Over there, do you see?” Heather Chandler turned from the football game to the swings, and regret gripped at Heather's heart with clammy fingers when she saw the smile that lit up her friends face.

“What are you going to do?” Heather whispered as she followed Heather over. But there was no reply, and then they were at the swings.

It didn't seem that important to her; the glow in Duke's face, the twisted satisfaction in Chandler's. The timid smile that she knew had crept onto her own face. 

It hadn't occurred to her that their places had just been set in stone.

**17/9/1983, Heather is 11**

“Why are you drinking that, Heather?”

“Because.” Duke was sitting on Heather’s enormous king-sized bed, sipping a glass of red wine. “Heather gave it to me.”

“Just because Heather gives you something doesn’t mean you have to take it. Stand up.” Mac held the green dress up against Duke, frowning. It was too big at the shoulders, but Chandler had spent a lot of money on it, and Mac knew that even rich people could run out of money, so she said nothing.

“Heather drinks wine, Mac. And you’re just jealous that she didn’t offer it to you.”

Mac frowned. “Is that what she said?” 

Mac could remember the time that Chandler had offered her wine. It was her second time round the mansion. But Mac had looked at Ms Chandler; red-stained lips, frizzy blonde curls falling around a forehead that never moved. She was a retiring beauty, or as Mac’s mum had put it, a cheerleader who had peaked in high school but never realised it.

Mostly, though, Mac had noticed Ms Chandler’s eyes. 

Empty. 

“I said no to the wine, Heather.” 

And Heather looked slightly shocked, like she couldn’t believe she’d been lied too. It made Mac feel even worse, because even though she knew that this role she’d been given would have landed on Heather’s shoulders, it was still her fault because of that _ stupid _ day in the park.

Heather looked like she was going to say something, but then just rolled her eyes.

“Well that makes you a pussy then, doesn’t it?”

**17/1/1984, Heather is 11**

Mac really didn’t want to go to French study after school. It just made Chandler mad, and then she told Heather to stop calling her Mac because it was childish, but she’d made a place for herself in that name and now she didn’t know how to go back to Heather. She’d never listened to the stupid nicknames in the first place.

“McNamara.” Mrs Renning smiled at her as she walked in. “I’ve got you a partner today.”

And in what seemed to be the cruelest twist of fate, sitting next to Heather’s usual chair, smiling like a goddess, was the french exchange student that had become Chandler’s new play-thing that lunchtime. 

**5/2/1984, Heather is 11**

“McNamara, you’re so bad at French!” Hannah laughed, reading through Mac’s essay. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

“I’m not awful…” Mac’s voice trailed off, because even though Hannah had been nothing but nice to her, all she could think about was how she and Chandler had spent the entire lunchtime off somewhere, leaving Duke in a really bad mood. It hadn’t made Mac feel jealous, but it was somewhat annoying how easily Chandler ditched them.

Then the doors opened and a flurry of red spilled through with blonde curls and a radiant, evangelical grin. “Ok McNamara, you can go now.” Chandler leaned on the desk and shared a look with Hannah. “Duke’s probably outside somewhere.”

“You need to conjugate your verbs, beauté.” Hannah smiled, handing Mac her bag. “I’ll look it over tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on Hannah.” Chandler grabbed the girls sleeve and pulled her out of the room, leaving Mac alone.

Again. 

**11/2/1984, Heather is 11**

“Listen up bitch. We need to get rid of Hannah.”

Mac blinked up at Chandler in shock. She was always looking up at her ever since Chandler got into massive heels, but she supposed that was the idea.

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Why?” Chandler laughed bitterly, and grabbed Mac’s sleeve, pulling her into a supply closet. “Because she’s trying to take my place Heather.”

“Wait, why would she do that? She’s two years older than us Heather, I think she’s just your friend -”

“Oh, shut _ up _ Heather!” Chandler stamped her foot into the ground. “I can just tell. And besides, didn’t you prefer it better when it was just the three of us?”

Well, it had meant that Heather was happier a lot of the time, but there was no way Mac was going to say that to Chandler. 

“I suppose her name doesn’t fit…”

“Bloody hell you’re a bitch!” Chandler laughed. “But I guess that’s something. Come on, move your ass.” She turned and strutted down out of the closet, moving so fast that Mac had to practically run to keep up. 

“What, what do you mean, get rid of her?”

“Oh, you know.” Chandler shrugged, turning the corner to the locker room. “I’ll find some blackmail. Bully her. Like I made that cunt Tricia leave.”

And Mac froze.

She hadn’t directly thought about Tricia in months. The necklace she’d made as a memorial was stuffed under her mattress, she’d thrown it there that day she and Heather had walked home.

Whilst she’d always known that Chandler was the main reason that Tricia had left, Mac had always believed that there was more to the story. All Chandler did was say mean things, but Tricia hadn’t moved just because of that, surely. Chandler’s insults weren’t that bad. 

But now Mac realised that she’d never actually been on the receiving end of one of Chandler’s rages - she’d just stood and watched the apex predator sink her teeth in. And since Chandler rarely bullied the same person twice in a row, it hadn’t really mattered.

“What, what did you just say?” Mac didn’t think her voice had ever been so cold. Chandler stopped in her tracks, and when she turned there was something flashing in her eyes. 

“Oh fuck off Heather, Tricia is old news. That happened years ago.”

And that was all the conformation Mac needed.

“No.”

“No?” The flash was gone, replaced by a fierce anger. “Really? _ Really _? Decided to stop being a pussy then, Heather?”

“JUST SHUT UP HEATHER!” Mac screamed. But the look on Chandler’s face wasn’t even worth it, because all she could see was her old best friend crying, and crying, and crying, and crying, then screaming, with her black bob falling round her face.

Mac hadn’t done anything then. She could do something now.

“Go find someone else to be your bitch, I won’t do that. Not today.” She turned and tried not to run, refusing to turn around to meet Chandler’s hysterical laughter.

“You’re such a whore, Heather! A dirty bitch who won’t even help her friends!”

The insults were easy to ignore. 

After all, no matter how much they made her heart ache, Tricia’s scars had been cut much, _ much _ deeper.

**3/3/1984, Heather is 11**

The letter was dropped through her front door. Both of her parents were out, so she’d stepped on it when she walked in. 

And Mac had recognised the cursive immediately. 

_ Hey McNamara. I know that you weren’t involved in any of this, because I know you never asked for any of this. Heather told me all about Tricia, and even though she was so twisted and cruel with her words, I could guess the truth. And I’m so so sorry. Please don’t blame yourself for what happened to me, I overheard your screaming match with Heather, so I assume she was asking you to help her. Thank you, for refusing. But in the end it didn’t matter - Duke and her did it. I hope you stay nice, Heather. Don’t let Chandler change you. I’ll be ok, beauté. Hannah x _

No. 

No no no please no. 

Mac ripped the letter into as many pieces as she could.

No, she knew that Chandler had done this, but she refused to believe that Heather had been involved too.

Oh god, why hadn’t she said yes? She could have warned Hannah, or made it less painful. But she was just too _ weak _ . She just _ ran _ , and never dealt with problems, she just ignored them. Even after her screaming match with Chandler, she hadn’t left the Heather’s. She hadn’t done _ anything _.

She never did. She just failed everyone. She failed Tricia. She failed Hannah.

And worst of all, she’d failed Heather. She hadn’t saved her.

She just stood back, and let Chandler ruin everything. 

Mac was sobbing, screaming. But nobody could hear her, because she was alone in her yellow room on her yellow duvet screaming into her yellow pillow, stuck in her place no matter how much she wanted to leave.

And in her head, all she could see was Tricia’s face, streaked with tears, and Hannah’s letter, refusing to place blame where it belonged, with _ her _.

In her head, all she could hear was Heather Chandler’s cruel, terrible laughter.

**14/6/1984, Heather is 12**

“Oh my fucking god McNamara, what the hell happened to your arm?” 

Chandler had her hand over her mouth in perfect, beautiful disgust, and Heather just looked shocked. 

Her arm. Oh. Shit. 

Mac hadn’t meant to do it. But sometimes, when Chandler had been cruel and Heather had basked in the glory of being the favourite, Mac would just sit in her bed and look at herself in the mirror. 

There was nothing wrong with her. 

Blonde, tall, skinny. But every time she looked, she never saw herself. 

Tricia was there, with long black hair now, looking so much older. The way Mac never got to see her. Except her face was bloated and purple, with a rope around her neck because even after moving away, she was still haunted by Chandler’s insults, and it got too much. That’s the only way it could have ended. It didn’t matter what her parents told her, about how happy she was in a new school. They were lying. They didn’t know. 

Hannah was there, her body bloody and broken, lying in a ditch. Because she could never go home, not after what happened. So she just kept on running and running and not knowing where to go. Until eventually she ran into something that ran _ her _ over, and there was nobody there to find her body. Chandler had been lying, when she said Hannah had gone back to France. Because she thought that would hurt Mac more, so she had been lying. But she didn’t know.

Or, on the worst nights, she would watch herself be transformed by a demonic Heather Chandler, until her forehead didn’t move and her face looked plastic and her hair was all fake and shiny and perfect. This McNamara wore tight skirts and tight tops and always had yellow nails and a yellow scrunchie in her hair and her eyes were so so so so so empty. That one was the worst, because she knew that it was her future. The future she’d written for herself. 

So she dug her nails into her arm until they bled. Because physical pain was better than her mirror. 

“Oh, my cousins came round to visit. Their dog is vicious.”

“Fucking hell. They should get the bitch put down.”

“Like somebody should put that bitch Dumptruck down.”

Then they left, and Mac dug her nails into her arm to escape the pain in her head.

**28/9/1984, Heather is 12**

When she got home, her mum was sitting on her bed. Wringing her hands. And holding...something.

When she saw Mac in the doorway, she jumped. Hid the mysterious object behind her back. Mac tugged on the sleeves of her yellow blazer, glad she hadn’t taken it off downstairs so her mum couldn’t see her arms. There were only a few scars, because she’d managed to control herself. But sometimes it just got so bad...

“Honey, erm, why don’t you come sit down.” Her mum seemed to flinch at the mindless way Mac was moving, but that was how she did everything nowadays. 

“So, erm, well. You’re getting into your teens now, and I can’t help but notice how you’ve, well, distanced yourself from everyone. You were always so...happy, when you were younger. And now, well.”

“Mum, if this is you going on about my friends again.” Her mum and dad had realised, from their daughters new clothing and makeup and everything else, that perhaps Heather Chandler had been a bit of an influence, and more than a few times they’d tried to push her towards somebody apart from Duke and Chandler. 

But there was no point. She’d just fail with anyone else.

Duke and Chandler had made sure of their control over her, even though she suspected Duke wasn’t aware of her actions. Chandler definitely was though, and she liked this new, improved version of Mac.

Ever since the letter, Mac had been quiet. Submissive. She’s stopped growing closer to Duke. She was a bully. A whore. And there was no point pretending otherwise.

“No, I actually ran into Heather Chandler today, she was going to a dentist appointment and just wanted to grab some lunch from the shops.” Yeah right, Chandler had skipped today to go do...something. Mac didn’t really want to know. 

“She’s a lovely girl, I think it was wrong of me to judge her on her parents. But this is...something else.” Her mum looked scared as she showed Heather the thing in her hands -

A fucking _ pill bottle _.

“Mum, what -”

“Just, just listen honey. I managed to get you these, you know Lisa who works in the pharmacy, I said it was for one of your cousins. An older cousin. But you can, if you ever need to, you can just...try.” Her mum stood up, leaving the bottle on the bed, arms swinging at her sides like she was expecting a reaction. A hug.

Mac gave her nothing.

“Just, if you need to, then follow the instructions, and...it’s only a last minute thing. I, I love you buttercup.”

“Love you too mum.” Then Mac turned away, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, with a jock boyfriend and the ghosts of Hannah and Tricia and everybody else she’d every bullied floating above her shoulders. 

The car reversed out of the driveway. Her parents were gone. Double shifts. Money was hard.

“Can’t you hear it!” She screamed down the stairs anyway, with her nails in her forearms. “Can’t you hear her fucking laughter!”

Mac fell sobbing onto her bed, staring at the pill bottle. She counted them out, and then there were ten little white circles in her palm. They promised release. No pain.

She coughed, then swallowed one. Laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

Nothing. 

She still felt nothing. 

Well, fine then.

Two more. Two more. Four more. 

All of them had to do _ something _ . Make her feel _ anything _. 

She gagged, feeling them in her throat. Chandler’s red red red nails wrapped around her neck, forcing her to look at Duke sobbing, screaming on the park swings. All of them there, Tricia and Hannah staring from either side of the swing-set. Martha and Veronica. Ram and his jocks. Betty Finn. Everybody she’d ever led on, bullied, kissed behind the gym, watched cry. Everyone she used to know.

_ You did this _ , they said. _ You did this to Heather. You brought her in, it’s all your fault she’s like this. _

Mac crawled to the bathroom, with spit flying from her mouth and her hair hanging into the toilet. She puked, the pills mixed in with bile and the remnants of lunch. 

Ten perfect white circles, still. 

Her hands tightened on the rim. She had to hold on to _ something _.

Because if there wasn’t something to hold onto, then there would be nothing. And in the nothing, all she heard was their voices. 

**5/11/1984, Heather is 12**

“Heather, do you have any hand cream?”

Duke was sitting with her on the field, watching everybody else do gym, but she was having an operation or something to do with her teeth so Chandler had used it to get all three of them out of gym. Except Chandler had gone, so they were left alone. As usual.

“Yeah, in my bag.” Mac tried to avoid looking at the girl next to her. 

She didn’t hate Duke for what she did to Hannah. She didn’t even hate Chandler. But every single time, when she looked at Duke, all she could see was Hannah’s body in a ditch. Hannah in those photos. Hannah with tears in her eyes, writing in perfect cursive. 

“Erm, Heather?” Duke’s voice had gone quiet. Scared.

Mac turned to see her clutching a pill bottle. 

“What, what’s this?” There was a stupid smile on Duke’s face, like she was already trying to ignore the very thing she was holding. It was all that Mac could focus on over her pounding heart.

“It’s nothing Heather, jesus fuck, do I go looking through your shit?” Mac snatched the bottle back, stuffing it into her jersey pocket. Duke would just ignore it. She always ignored the important things.

“I was just looking for hand cream…” Duke stood, then dropped down in front of Mac, blocking her view of the rest of the class, a distraction that she’d needed.

“Do you, erm, want to talk about it?”

“What the actual fuck Heather? Talk about what? I don’t bloody do drugs -”

“Talk about depression.” The smile had gone from Duke’s face, and Mac almost preferred it to the grim frown she almost never saw. “Since those are antidepressants, and I don’t really know how you got them but -”

“I’m _ not _ depressed, Heather!” 

“I never said that you were, Mac.”

“Just leave off, alright. What’s your fucking damage?”

“You never swear, Mac. Not if you can avoid it.”

“Jesus Christ Duke, who do you think you are?” Mac looked at Duke, sitting cross-legged on the floor, like she was somebody that people came to with issues. “You’re not my friend. You’re just a Heather, and I’m a Heather, and Chandler is a Heather. That’s our job. I just work with you. So leave me the hell alone.”

Then she ran away, and threw the pill bottle, with sixty perfect white circles inside, into the river, and tried to pretend she hadn’t wanted to to talk, not even for a moment. 

**7/1/1985, Heather is 11**

“Why are you wearing black with yellow, Heather? You look like a wasp. It’s weird.” Chandler looked her up and down in the girls bathroom, not even needing to glance in the mirror to apply a perfect coating of lip gloss. Duke stood at the sink, chewing gum and re-doing her mascara. 

“And your hair, did you even brush it?” Chandler dragged her fingers through Mac’s hair. “If you’re going to straighten it, then you need to treat it properly.”

Of course, Chandler didn’t know that Mac had spent half an hour in front of the mirror fixing herself, like she did every morning. But this treatment in the bathrooms was normal.

“You gave her that outfit, Heather.”

Mac flinched at the sound of Duke’s voice. She saw something flash across Chandler’s face too, then the demon queen wheeled round on her heels to face her minion. 

“Holy balls, what are you saying Heather?”

“Just, don’t be so hard on Mac since you gave her the outfit-”

“Shut the _ fuck. Up. _ Heather. What the hell is this?”

The atmosphere was suffocating - hell, if somebody had pulled Mac out of the ocean right at that moment and told her she was drowning, she would have believed them.

And then the fourth cubicle swung open and Betty Finn stepped out, with a look on her face that Chandler read instantly. 

In the past, Chandler had clicked her fingers when she wanted backup. But now Duke and Mac could just feel it. 

All fights were forgotten when there was a master to please.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Mac whispered whilst Chandler was distracted. Duke raised an eyebrow.

“Because you’re my friend, Mac.” She whispered back. 

**8/1/1985, Heather is 11**

Mac had never been out so late at night before. Well, she’d been out in the car, but never walked. Thank god Duke lived pretty close. 

She had to throw three stones at Duke’s window before a silhouette appeared and opened it. 

“Mac, is that you? What the fuck? It’s, like, ten o’clock.”

“Well, what are you doing up then?”

“I just got off the phone with Heather. My parents are out. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I want to talk about depression.”

Mac saw Duke suck in a breath of night air. “Well, come on in then.”

It was much warmer inside, and Mac was wearing a green dressing gown because hers was soaked. She hadn’t even realised it had been raining. 

Duke’s entire room was green. Different shades, and a lot of it mint, but so so green. Potted plants that were probably fake and green pots and boxes and a green duvet and green walls. 

Yeah, there was an unnatural amount of yellow like this, but she suspected that, unlike hers, this redecoration was entirely Duke’s own choosing. 

“Sorry, I know you prefer yellow, but come sit.”

“Actually, my colour is only yellow because the only top Chandler wanted to give to me happened to yellow.” She’d never said that before, but she’d always known. 

Duke ignored her, like she always did, and sat cross-legged like she had two months ago. Mac copied her, but they said nothing. Just looked at each other. 

“Would it help you if I started?”Mac didn’t miss the tremor in Duke’s voice, but she nodded. 

The Beta Heather twirled her brown hair around her index finger as she reached under her mattress, which only made Mac think about the secret she had stuffed under her own bed: the necklace. 

“Here.” There was nothing but shame in Duke’s eyes as she handed Heather a crumpled bit of paper. “I know it’s in my writing, but I copied it out because I dropped the original in a puddle.”

Mac ran her fingers over the creases, and she knew who’d written it. Because she had her own. 

_ I know it was you, Heather. I know because Chandler was half dead from the drink I gave her and McNamara would never have done this. So why did you? Did you want this to happen? Are you so fucking desperate for attention that you’d do this? Christ Heather, I just wanted to be free. Free of Chandler. I thought you wanted the same thing too. I was perfectly happy to just ride out April in your little gang, but then my parents said that we were going to stay here, and I couldn’t do that. I hate my parents, hate them. Did Chandler tell you I was Catholic? No, my dad is. Why do you think I got in the position to take those photos in the first place? Hell, why do you think I have them? Because I regretted it and I made that cock promise he’d give them to me or I’d tell everyone he was a homo and wouldn’t even kiss me. I needed to get rid of them. But then you did this. Thanks, stranger. Thanks for ruining my life. _

Mac met Duke’s eyes. 

“Hannah?”

“Yeah.” The girl opposite let out a sharp breath of air. “At least she’s back in France with only her mum.”

No, that wasn’t true. Duke didn’t know. But she wasn’t going to say that here.

“I’m trapped.” Mac clenched her hands into fists, holding the duvet to stop her nails from digging into her palms. “I’m trapped by Chandler, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I got myself into this situation because I’m a useless piece of chicken shit who can’t even stand up for the nice people, the _ good _ people. I...I let Tricia leave, I let Chandler bully her, and she was the only real friend that I, I, I…”

She could feel the tears making their way down her cheek, and suddenly she was pulled into an embrace.

A hand with green nails stroked her hair, whispering “It’s not your fault, It’s not your fault,” Over and over.

And Mac let herself, for the first time in forever, be comforted. 

Comforted by her friend. 

By Heather. 

**16/4/1985, Heather is 13**

For the first month, it was like paradise. 

The shared glances, the jokes as they walked home together. The friendship she hadn't felt since a lifetime ago.

But like always, it was ruined. 

The cryptic comments by Chandler that showed Mac that she wasn’t approving of this kind of comradery. Dragging Heather away, leaving Mac alone with the masses. 

Paranoia as she looked in the mirror, seeing Heather lying dead on the floor and Chandler laughing because it was Mac’s fault. Heather and Chandler together, leaving her alone. 

Now the shared glances felt something like treason.

But she kept them going anyway. 

Except Heather wasn’t there, and now she was trapped behind Chandler as she clicked fingers and laughed at some nerd who Mac didn’t even know existed.

“And what the fuck is this.” Chandler held up a perfect white circle, and looked at Mac until she laughed, when really the bile was rising up in her throat and she could see everything floating in front of her.

“Breathe.” A voice whispered suddenly in her ear. She met Heather’s soft brown eyes and felt her friend squeeze her hand. “It’s ok, you’re not him. You don’t have depression.” She’d told Heather that she didn’t have depression, so Mac didn’t blame her for saying things like that. It still calmed her down.

But then she saw Chandler looking at them.

Her eyes were deep and dark and terrifying. 

“Go on Duke, have your turn.”

“Really?” Heather let go of Mac’s hand, but she was still frowning. “I wouldn’t want to take the kill.”

“Oh shut up Heather. Go on, I’m telling you too. You can come into the woods with me tomorrow, when I skip.”

And Mac just looked at the floor. 

What was the point? She could never fight for herself.

Duke’s voice echoed in her ears, mixing with disgusting but somehow appealing thoughts. 

“It’s just in your head, you pathetic little shit. Using this as an excuse to do drugs. Hey, y’all, don’t you know that Malcom does drugs? Yeah, he’s a fucking pill junkie, and he pretends it’s _ medication _.”

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Count them out. That’s how many you have in your pocket. You can go now. Take them all. Make it go numb. Get a cigarette off of Ram. Make it go away.

Mac couldn’t tell the difference, anymore, between her own voice and Heather Chandler’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not really anything to say, is there? Apart from jesus christ I'm sorry for everything Mac went through and it's horrible and if you find yourself thinking or doing or experiencing anything she did, don't face it alone. It's clique, but reach out. Get help. There are people that care.
> 
> All of this, in my mind at least, is what made Mac what she is. She is canonically depressed, and she attempts suicide in the movie and musical. But also remember that she gets better, so much as I wish I could have written her a recovery arc, I'm just creating a backstory. 
> 
> Anyway, next chapter is muuuuch lighter, with only some mild delinquency.  
[ say hi :) ](http://scones-and-slushies.tumblr.com/)  
x


	4. I Think There's A Flaw In My Code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a Veronica...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.
> 
> It's been a while. 
> 
> Stupidly, because we're all stuck indoors so surely I have all the time in the world, right?
> 
> Say hello to online school and Netflix. Takes up my time. 
> 
> But anyway, here's the new chapter. Enjoy!

**15/6/1985, Veronica is 12**

Today marked three very important days in her life. And also the beginning of summer holidays.

First, it was a month until her birthday. That seemed something ridiculous to many, that she would count down the months before she turned fourteen, but she and Martha had made the tradition many years ago that they would buy one chocolate bar for each other every day for a month from a gas station before their birthdays. And Martha would always buy fucking expensive chocolate.

Second, it marked the anniversary of her great mental peak. The day they decided that sending her off to high school was actually a very, very bad idea - something she’d been saying for a long time, but only the guidance counsellors listened to her (though they’d stopped protesting so much after she took a standard test and scored higher than most of the current students).

And finally, it was the day that she was compelled to sit at the breakfast table and relive her _ greatest achievements _. A phrase that sometimes made Veronica want to throw up on her traditional summer-holiday waffles. Or even in the competition trophies that her mum liked to pull out of the cabinets and cupboards, trophies that sometimes Veronica didn’t even remember winning.

Yes, the Ohio under 10’s spelling bee competition. An event that had most certainly stuck in her mind because of the pride from winning that silver trophy, and definitely not because one of the contestants spelt orange with a d.

Truly, the state of_ peak _childhood intelligence.

Though, Miss America Mary Katherine Campbell had been from Ohio. Veronica wondered if she had ever participated in the _ spelling bee _.

“So, Veronica.” Her mum grinned. Veronica poked her waffle. 

“Will somebody tell me why I still can’t pour maple syrup properly?” Her dad interrupted, gesturing to the brown puddle now drowning his waffle. “Because you’re an idiot.” Veronica smirked, sprinkling marshmallows over her plate.

“Anyway, as I was saying -”

“You’re secretly a lizard man from deep space?”

“What, no -”

“Your younger sister is actually a secret British royal?”

“Veronica, what-”

“You’re allergic to waffles and have eaten so many over the past few years that your glands have puffed up so badly you have to take pills every morning or you’ll look like a mating bullfrog?” Veronica laughed with her father at her mother’s shocked expression. 

Sometimes, she watched the other kids getting picked up, like Martha and her mum, who was trying to keep Martha young forever and actually not doing a bad job about it. Or Heather Chandler’s driver, because her mum was getting drunk in her padded mansion walls. 

She got the middle range with her parents. Not too strict, not too lenient. Pushing of her mental abilities, sure, but never forcing her to try other things, like sports. The tool of the devil.

“Anyway,” Mrs Sawyer said through a bite of waffle. “I was thinking, this summer, instead of just doing nothing Veronica, why don’t you get out a bit?”

“Is this going somewhere mum? Because I’ve gotta motor, I’m heading over to Martha’s to walk her neighbours dog. Gets me a few dollars.” 

“Yes, honey.” Her mum pulled her back into her seat, dropping another waffle down in front of her. “I signed you up for an interstate maths competition next week.”

Veronica blinked. 

Well, there went the hopes of an uneventful, relaxed, drama-free summer.

**24/6/1985, Veronica is 12**

Her mum couldn’t stop telling everybody how amazing her daughter was.

Seriously, even the milkman got his fair share. Poor cashier, she must have droned on for hours. The old ladies had their deaf ears talked off, and if they thought it was bad, Veronica started to firmly believe that too much praise just makes you want to fail at everything for the pure satisfaction you’d feel at seeing everyone’s faces.

“I mean, it is a big deal for her.” Martha was braiding some daisies in a chain whilst they sat on the swings. “You’re her only child, and now you’re some super-genius.”

“Right.” Veronica rolled her eyes. Martha had a huge heart, sometimes too huge. Refused to ever see the bad in people, and the bad included the annoying, disgusting and downright arsehole-ness that made up most of all humans on the planet.

Veronica was a very cynical person. She’d been cynical since the day she was born, according to her grandmother.

“So the final’s being held here then?”

“Yep. Cutler Hall, I think. But I really don’t want to do it.”

Martha frowned. “Wait, what? I thought you enjoyed the other ones?”

“Ok, yeah, but I enjoyed beating the swats. The know-it-alls who thought just because they’re from California they’re automatically superior. Side note, I can’t believe my mum took us all the way to _ fucking California _ -” Veronica noticed the look on Martha’s face and immediately wished she could take back her words, “Sorry, bloody California, and we didn’t even go to the Grand Canyon.”

“You could be up against swots this time, though.”

“I already looked at my competition.” Veronica sighed, hands falling in between her legs as the swing slowed to a halt. “There’s a girl with the IQ of Einstein from New Mexico, a boy from South Dakota who seems to have the personality of a slug, and the other person hasn’t been announced yet.” 

Martha chuckled quietly next to her, going back to the daisies. Veronica looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun, and immediately found something more interesting than her own thoughts.

“Look at them, Mar. The perfect trio.”

“Sometimes I think you’re obsessed with the Heather’s, Veronica.” Martha took one look at the three, all dressed in matching dresses of yellow, green and red, before returning to the chain. “Heather McNamara was nice enough before Tricia left, and I haven’t spoken to the other two in years. If you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. Most of the time.”

“I can’t believe you almost invited Heather Chandler to come and sit with us back in fifth grade.”

“She looked lonely, and I felt bad. Please don’t judge me.”

“Wasn’t that the week she came in with red nail polish?”

Martha dropped the daisy chain and hooked her leg around Veronica’s ankles, swinging herself into the same rhythm. “What’s your obsession?”

“I don’t know…” And she didn’t. But she just liked to watch them. And remember the time when Heather Chandler wasn’t thirteen going on thirty. Before the makeup and the wine (she presumed there was wine). “We’re in eighth grade now Martha. Come September we’ll be in ninth. And she’s already reached second base, smoked more than a few cigarettes, made her face up like a supermodel and drank more alcohol than I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been to a lot of parties with my parents, and trust me, drunk people are the only entertainment.”

Martha frowned. “So are you saying you want that?”

“What? No.” Veronica sighed. “It’s just...they’re untouchable. And you’re pure. And I’m in maths competitions.”

“You really sound like you want to be a Heather. I can’t imagine it’s that nice.”

“Well, that’s the dream Mar.”

**30/6/1985, Veronica is 12**

Her outfit was disgusting.

A blue blazer, knee-length black skirt and Mary Janes. She felt like a 1920’s school girl.

But Veronica was trying to keep her parents happy. That would make the outcome of the day, when she lost to Einstein girl, Slug and Mystery Boy. Because she’d bluffed her way through all the other competitions, barely scraping through in the top spot. And she really, _ really _ couldn’t be bothered.

She tried to keep Martha’s mindset in mind: positivity for the win! But it just comes out dripping with sarcasm in her mind. 

“Hone, you’ll go that way and meet the other contestants ok.” Her mum pushed her through the doors of what appeared to be a broom cupboard and disappeared, leaving Veronica alone in a cloakroom with three total strangers and a crisp packet she’d managed to grab on the way out. 

Einstein girl actually bore a remarkable resemblance to the genius himself, save her hair was ginger, but still in a cloud around her head. Big glasses, golfball-sized eyes, knee-high stocking - yep, all the cliches. Veronica ignored her wave and sat on the furthest bench possible.

Luckily, that bench was fairly far from Slug, who was in the process of excavating his left nostril and itching his slicked-back brown hair. Veronica didn’t know his name, but based on just his appearance there was an 80% probability it was Horace.

Mystery Boy was turned away when she came in. He was taller than the other two, with blonde curls and a denim jacket, but she didn’t exactly hold her expectations high for a decent human being considering the other two she was stuck playing against.

“Your outfit says you belong here, but the look on your face makes me think otherwise.”

She jumped, and looked up into a pair of sea-green eyes, set into a freckled, sun-kissed smiling face. 

“You are?” The stranger - oh wait, was this mystery boy? - sat down next to her, and held out his hand. 

“You are?” Veronica mimicked, frowning at his hand.

“I believe I asked you first, Mary Jane.”

“But I’ve been calling you mystery boy for the past few days, and all good nicknames have a best-by date.”

Mystery Boy laughed. “Fair enough. You can call me Cupid.”

Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Mmm, well unless your parents are very cruel people, that nickname is terrible and will run out in about a day.”

“My parents are terrible people.” He gestured towards the other two in the cloakroom, Slug still on his excavation project and Einstein girl face-first in a textbook. “They signed me up for this bullshit.”

She chuckled. “I feel your pain. But I’m sure Slug and Einstein girl are almost wonderful when you get to know them.”

“I’m not getting to know them,” Cupid smiled, and Veronica brought up a mental image of surfing crisp blue waves, lying on white sandy beaches and licking a thousand ice-creams, probably the way he spent his summer, in some coastal Michigan beach town. “I’m getting to know you.”

She almost blushed.

“You can call me...Psyche.”

“But you aren’t being sacrificed to a monster off of a rock spire, are you?”

“Oh, a man of culture.”

They both laughed, and Veronica didn’t feel embarrassed when she pulled off her blazer and joked for the next twenty minutes, a feat that wouldn’t be possible in Westerburg considering you could fit the entire mental male IQ nicely into a sugar cube. 

But then an invigilator appeared at the door and she had to go do the damn maths competition with Einstein girl on her team (backwater gender bias, of course it was boys versus girls. She got the feeling Cupid would have laughed at that).

**1/7/1985, Veronica is 12**

“I still think you did amazing!” Martha’s voice sounded tinny and stupid over the phone, insisting on congratulating Veronica for the umpteenth time over her miserable loss - not to Slug, but to Cupid, who she probably should have tried against but it was more fun to mess with her teammate, who was clearly of the feminist mindset that only woman could be good at modern-age maths. 

Her mother had been just as, if not even more, disappointed as Einstein-girl’s Asian parents, who, even though she’d learnt that their daughter was adopted (the bitch did _ not _ shut up), were determined to fill their stereotypical social rule and raise smart little children. They’d given her plenty of dirty looks. 

Her dad had probably only come for the free food. He couldn’t care less. It wasn’t as though he’s been the one to clear the mantelpiece in preparation for a trophy that a) never came, and b) would have had to be shared anyway. And if she never saw Einstein-Girl or Slug again, her life would still have been ruined by the brief day she’d spent in their presence.

And Cupid? Well, he’d vanished after the competition. The only thing that had made her slightly down in the entire day. 

“Are you sure that you can’t, like, completely ditch your spontaneous camping trip and come rescue me from my terrible, horrible awful existence.”

“Sorry, Veronica. My mums already mad enough that she had to pay for me to use the camp phone.”

“What kind of luxury campsite are you in, anyway?”

“I gotta go, Veronica! Byeeee.” It pissed her off that Martha always extended her goodbyes, but she’d take a million high-pitched shrieks right to her ear to escape from her parents. 

And right on cue:

“Veronica! Want to play a game of Scrabble?” 

If there was anybody that could be used by the CIA as a torture weapon against the Soviets, Veronica thought as she went downstairs, it was her mother. 

“Sorry, rain check, I wanna go for a walk. Breathe in the sun and all.”

She had definitely not convinced her mother.

“I read in a library book that Vitamin D increases mental processing speed.”

She had definitely convinced her mother. Veronica left before any more interruptions could stop her. 

When she was Martha, who seemed to always have to fill the air with noise, she never really noticed the town. Sure, she’d look at the chinese where Martha had snorted juice out of her nose, or remember when she’d skinned her knee trying to post a letter, but on the whole, Westerburg was just Westerburg. A jumble of buildings in Sherwood, Ohio where nothing interesting would ever happen. Nobody was ever gonna blow up the school, or leap off of a bridge, or kill an enemy. Veronica doubted that anybody even _ had _ enemies, it was basically like a town of extras from an american sitcom. The tourists and soccer mums who walk between the two main characters to create conflict.

Maybe that was why she envied the Heather's. They didn’t just sit by, no, they _ created _ conflict. Out of nothing but lies, for sure, but the entertainment was still there.

And once you were in, nobody could touch you. 

But Veronica didn’t want to be in the Heather’s. Nobody cared about her, nobody bullied her, she was just a nobody. Yeah, there were the ‘nerd!’s in the hallway, but aside from that, she was just a background character. 

God, was she a soccer mum?

Veronica laughed to herself, wandering aimlessly through the streets in order to avoid having to go back home and face that nightmare. What she wouldn’t give for a -

“Psyche?”

Veronica spun round to find a boy with sandy curls and bright green eyes smiling at her. She had to hold in her grin. 

Finally somebody _ interesting _.

“Wouldn’t it have been embarrassing for you if I had just been a random girl?”

“I imagine that I could have charmed her easily.” The boy wasn’t lying, he had the most infectious smile she’d ever seen. Even Heather Chandler might have been swayed for a moment.

“What are you doing here?”

“My parents decided to make this a little holiday.” Cupid shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and walked alongside her. “Even though it’s fucking freezing here and I could barely pick up any...work”

“If you’re a drug dealer, then this friendship is over.”

“Why would you automatically assume that I’m a drug dealer?” He raised an eyebrow as they ambled their way through town.

Veronica was about to ask him exactly what work he was picking up, but then she felt the heavens literally open above her as they were drenched in a sheet of rain.

“Oh, fuck. Come on.” She grabbed Cupid’s hand and pulled him into the closest building, a 7-11 at the end of the high street. “Welcome to Ohio.”

“Yeah, this seems like a great tourist destination.” He pulled his coat off and without a word wrapped it round Veronica’s shivering frame, before wandering over to the slushie machine. 

Thank god it was just them and the man and the counter - nobody was around to see her blush.

“I would offer you a slushie, but…” He propped himself up against a shelf and grinned at her. “So, aside from the rain, what else makes Sherwood, Ohio the most perfect getaway for the junior traveller?”

She walked over to him and just managed to catch herself before she leant her head on his shoulder. “Well, the jock crowd here is beautifully cliche-”

“Oh, now I feel at home.”

“We have a great hippie teacher -”

“I have three.”

“The Heather’s-”

“I - wait, what? What does that even mean?”

The Heather’s were such a massive part of her school life that sometimes Veronica forgot they were unique to Westerburg.

“There’s three of them. Heather McNamara, I think she’s rich. The nice one. Heather Duke. Probably already booked her first implant appointment, the tag-along copycat. And Heather Chandler, the biggest bitch on the block. The leader.”

He frowned at her. “Didn’t take you for the type to care about the ‘popular’ people.” He even used air quotes around popular to emphasise his point.

“Trust me, when you see them you’ll get it.” Veronica fell against his shoulder before she could stop herself, and they lapsed into silence as the rain pounded down around them.

**5/7/1985, Veronica is 12**

Cupid was fucking with her brain.

She hadn’t seen him since the rainstorm, and she didn’t actually think he was staying in Sherwood (Where would he even be staying? They didn’t exactly have a local Hilton's).

But she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Martha would say something over the phone, and she would imagine what he would have said in response. Watching the Heather’s, she could hear his laughing voice mocking them.

The absence of both her best friend and her new intriguing acquaintance had made her realise even more how few people she could actually say liked her, or wanted to hang out with her. Sure, there was her lab partner or the girl she shared maths homework with, but they were like a one-hour friend. Never speaking when they left the class.

But Veronica just had Martha. And when Martha wasn’t there, she was left alone on the swings. Lame. Thank god that the Heather’s were preoccupied and Kurt Kelly had wandered off with some girl who was perfectly happy to suffer his tongue stuck down her throat. 

She heard the swing next to her creak under somebody’s weight, but when she turned

“Hey again.” Cupid grinned at her.

“Where the fuck are you staying? Because you're not staying in Sherwood.” She asked, turning back to the Heather’s to prevent him seeing the ghost of a smile that she couldn’t hide.

“Was I that obvious? Did you follow me home?” His voice was laughing. 

“That’s the Heather’s.” She pointed, avoiding his question, but regretting all of her life choices when his and Chandler’s eyes met.

She could see something shift in the Queen Bitch’s expression. 

“Oh fuck. You might want to get out of here.”

Cupid was frowning. “I thought she was some long-lost Russian dictator the way you described her…”

“Ok great but seriously you don’t wanna deal with the pain.” Veronica pointed over at three girls, all crying on the round-a-bout. “See them? She did that, only five minutes ago. And now she’s gonna go to second base with you and hand you off to her minions like a chew toy. Trust me.”

“You’re making the assumption that I’d...want to do that.” He was still looking at Chandler like she was a bacteria under his microscope; studying her. “I mean, yeah, she’s good-looking I guess, but way too much makeup. Not my type.”

“Ok, well, I don’t want to deal with her, so please lets just go.” She grabbed Cupid’s sleeve and pulled him off the swing, walking away from the park before she was ripped to pieces by the bitch’s fangs. 

“I’m terrified.” He said drily as they walked away.

“You don’t get it. She’s a bully and I have to be the one to deal with her for the rest of my life. You get to fuck off in about a week.”

“Well, let me entertain you for that time.” He grinned, holding out his hand.

Veronica purposely stared at it like it was a sack of rotting meat.

“Ok, I’ve decided you’re not a snitch, so, come with me. See where I...work.

“No drug dens?”

“Promise.” He was still holding out his hand, but was she meant to take it like they were some sort of couple? Would he think that was weird as hell and ditch her?

She’d never thought this much about a boy before. 

Veronica pushed his hand aside, but Cupid just laughed and wrapped his arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her along with him down some kind of dingy alleyway. “What are we gonna do with you, Psyche?”

“Not take me to a murder den, I hope.” Though that seemed more likely every second as Cupid pushed open some door and walked into the back room of a tattoo parlour that could probably bring back the Black Death with all those needles.

Nobody looked at them twice, which made her even more confused. 

“Ok, so, what do you do?” She asked as they sat down at a booth, because there was some hidden parlour in the back of the store.

“Forgery.” Cupid shrugged, like he was daring her to ask more

“You’re kidding?” Veronica smirked, knowing that he probably wasn’t.

“Nope, forgery. One hundred percent. The guy here makes fake IDs. He’s friends with the guy I work for back home. But I have to keep ditching my parents to come here and get paid.”

Veronica stared down at the notebook he pulled out of his coat and pushed across the table towards her. “What do you expect me to do with that?”

He slid out of his seat and dropped down next to her. “I’m gonna teach you. Like somebody taught me.”

Cupid pulled a crappy pen out of his pocket and scrawled ‘diary’ across the front of the brown pad. 

She laughed. “I don’t do diaries.”

“Well, now you are. Write something new in a different handwriting every day. Remember specific parts of everybody’s writing that you can. Height, slant, loops, joined-up or not, thickness of the pen as they press down. There’s a bunch more, look, I’ll write them down for you. Just, write something for me first.”

Veronica frowned, but took the book and reluctantly scrawled her surname on the first page.

“Still not gonna tell me your name?” He asked as he snatched the book and started making a list in the margin.

“Not a chance boyo.” She leant over his shoulder and realised fairly quickly that he was writing the list of what to remember in her own fucking handwriting.

Cupid smirked at her expression. “A present. You’ll get good in a couple months.”

They spent the afternoon trading the diary back and forth between them, and Veronica didn’t overthink it when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders as Cupid walked her home.

**15/7/1985, Veronica is 13**

Birthdays were shit, and nobody could convince Veronica otherwise. 

Her mother had been under the assumption that she desired nothing but textbooks, and her father just went along with it like always. Martha was still away, and even successfully impersonating her grandmother's handwriting in her diary didn’t cheer her up. 

She hadn’t seen Cupid for days. Maybe he’d already gone home. In which case she’d probably never see him again, since she hadn’t exactly given him any way to contact her, and she still didn’t even know his fucking name.

The doorbell rang sharply, startling her out of her thoughts.

Shit, her parents were out. Maybe if she ignored it whoever the person was would go away. 

The doorbell went again. And again. 

“Fucks sake.” Veronica mumbled, pulling her hair up into a bun and heading downstairs. 

But when she pulled open the door, a pair of smiling green eyes greeted her. 

“I figured you were home alone, because I doubt your mother would let the doorbell ring three times.”

“Erm, what are you doing here?” Veronica shut the door behind her, very conscious of the fact that she was only wearing shorts and a long shirt that was covered in dry paint stains from when she’d decided that if her parents weren’t going to paint over her pink bedroom walls, she’d do it herself. 

“Came to say goodbye.” Cupid rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish for the first time since she’d met him. 

“You could just leave your phone number.” Veronica tried not to make her voice sound desperate, even though she probably failed. 

“Nah, more romantic and cliche this way.”

“Roman-” She tried to ask, but was cut off by Cupid grabbing her chin and kissing her. 

For a moment, she forgot to close her eyes she was so stunned. But then her hands found their way to his neck and they were actually, properly kissing. No tongue-shoving, no trying to pull off her shirt, just...kissing. 

And Veronica didn’t know how long they’d kissed for, before they both ran out of air and pulled away. 

She was very aware how red her face was. 

Cupid grinned at her. “See you in the next lifetime, Psyche. Happy birthday.”

And then he was gone. 

Veronica raised a hand to her lips, stuck on the porch for a moment, before she thought to ask herself how the hell he knew it was her birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for the next chapter:
> 
> -Internalised homophobia  
-Bullying  
-Suicidal thoughts  
-Feeling like a failure  
-Loneliness
> 
> (We're back to the depression peeps. Positivity who?)
> 
> [ say hi :) ](http://scones-and-slushies.tumblr.com/)  
x


	5. Stagnant And Idle...So Suicidal...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Kind of like being the tallest dwarf...'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:
> 
> -Internalised and external homophobia  
-Bullying/fighting  
-Parental abandonment  
-Loneliness  
-A form of self-harming/liking getting beat up  
-Regret/guilt

**2/1/1976, Kurt is 5**

“Dad, dad!” Kurt threw off the duvet, running down the hall to his parents room. There would be presents, and  _ cake _ . He was gonna get that firetruck racing car! And he could have a big party! His best friend Ram said they could play racing!

Get even more presents!

“Dad! Mum! Wake up wake up wake up!” He threw open the door, expecting to see his parents lying in bed, startled awake. His mum would smile, yawn and hug him. His dad would tickle his chin and say he couldn’t possibly be this old already.

But his mum wasn’t there. And his dad was staring out of the window.

“Daddy?” Kurt walked over, his slippers padding against the brown carpet. “Where’s mumma?”

Oh, she was downstairs! Maybe she hadn’t had time to finish his cake! And his dad was trying to hide the present he was holding!

Kurt laughed, hugging his dad's legs from behind. “It’s my birthday, daddy! Should I go and find -”

But then Kurt's dad spun round, sending the boy crashing to the floor. 

Kurt burst into tears. 

His dad stared at him, holding no present. His face was empty. 

“Get up.”

Kurt kept crying. He didn’t know what was going on. Maybe this was all a prank. It had to be a joke, right? 

He couldn’t stop crying. His mum was gonna come up the stairs any minute. She’d hug him. His dad would hug him and say sorry. 

It was his birthday…

“I said get up.” Paul Kelly stepped over his son's trembling body, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Your mum isn’t downstairs. You don’t have any presents. Grow up Kurt.”

Kurt didn’t get up, and he kept crying. “Daddy, I don’t under-”

“You don’t call me that anymore, Kurt. It’s father. Or sir. And we don’t have the money to buy you a present. Get over yourself.”

The tears started to dry up, as Kurt’s dad left the room. But Kurt was still sitting on the floor, in his snowman onesie and race car slippers, holding his aching arm. 

He didn’t understand. It was meant to be his birthday. His mum was meant to hug him and yawn. His dad was meant to tickle his chin and say Kurt couldn’t possibly be the old.

It was meant to be his birthday…

It was meant to be happy...

**9/12/1982, Kurt is 10**

There was so much snow Kurt could barely see through his glasses. He pulled his red earmuffs down lower, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

His dad hadn’t ever driven him to school, but that was okay, because he could walk in the snow now. Ram used to go with him, but he’d been acting weird these past few months. Maybe it was because of his baby sister, Delilah. She was probably stealing all the attention. 

Kurt wanted a sister, but his dad had never met another girl after his mum had left. He could still remember that morning, but he didn’t want to think about it in the snow. 

It was  _ snowing _ !

He passed Martha’s house on the way, she sat next to him in science. He waved at her car, but she didn’t see him until the last second. “See you in school, Kurt!” She yelled back to him as the car sped away. 

“See you Martha!” He yelled back. 

Oh, there was Ram! He wasn’t alone, but that was fine. Kurt would have liked to make some new friends. 

“Ram! Ram!” He ran over to the gaggle of boys in hoodies, not realising they were all in the year above until he got closer and saw how tall they all were. Ram was tall too; a couple months ago he’d had a growth spurt but Kurt was still waiting to grow. 

“Hey!” Kurt grinned. 

Ram scowled at him, and he was wearing some bulky grey coat Kurt had never seen before. The other boys were dressed the same - hang on, did that boy have a cigarette? 

“Oh, you shouldn’t use those.” Kurt pointed at the boy's mouth as he puffed out smoke. “My nanny told me they hurt your lungs.”

“Your  _ nanny _ told you?” The boy laughed, and the rest of the group went along with him, even Ram.

It wasn’t meant to be a joke…

Kurt turned back to Ram, about to ask him to come on or they’d be late, but then one of the other boys, the one with the lip ring, stopped laughing and put his hand down on Kurt’s shoulder. “Yo Sweeney, who the fuck is this dickwad?”

Kurt blinked in shock. What did that even mean?

“Nobody I know.” Ram took a cigarette out of his pocket and looked away from Kurt, staring off into the snow. The look in his eyes was something Kurt had never seen. “Some neighbour kid. His dad and mine are friends, so he thinks he can just fucking follow me everywhere.”

“What?” Kurt tried to speak, but the boy clamped his hand down even harder and snickered. 

“Aw, poor little boy.” Another one smirked. They started to surround Kurt. “Isn’t he the one who's mum fucked off with that guy from the trailer park?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw Ram walking away across the street, hands in his pocket and cigarette left on the floor. 

Kurt tried to go after him, but then the first punch sent him flying into the freezing snow.

**7/9/1985, Kurt is 14**

Kurt Kelly didn’t have any friends. 

He used to have one, Ram Sweeney. But then Ram had grown up, and Kurt was too slow to follow him. Too scared of the older ones and all the things they smoked, all the flasks they chugged from, all the girls they bragged about.

Kurt used to have a lot of things. A mum. A best friend. Happiness. 

But his mum was gone. His friend was gone. And he didn’t have it in him anymore to be happy. 

Besides, who would even  _ want _ to be his friend? 

When Kurt looked in the mirror, all he saw was the acne. The braces. The greasy hair that he couldn’t tame no matter how much he washed and combed. The skinny, small body. 

All he saw was what he was missing. The fantastic hair. The muscles. The eyes and dimples and smirk and cigarette. The girl hanging from his shoulder. 

Ram Sweeney had all of that. It was like, at some point when they were playing football or racing cars across the kitchen floor, Ram had just reached over and taken everything from Kurt, making himself great and leaving his old best friend trailing behind, never to catch up. 

Kurt still had braces, and girls would melt when Ram smiled at them. Kurt had no friends, and Ram had everybody. 

Kurt could never get a girl, and Ram had been with all three of the Heathers. Hell, the only Kurt could get a girl was to reach down and pretend that he had  _ anybody _ . 

That was most nights. The pretending. Normally he would pretend to have Heather Chandler. Sure, the other two were hot, but she was  _ everything _ . If she was with him, nobody would dare say anything. His dad wouldn’t be so disappointed in him. 

Heather Chandler. She was what he wanted. They used to go to the same pre-school, and even then she’d been terrifying. He’d watched her, as she’s started to grow into the mythic bitch status only she could claim, watched as she’d made girls literally  _ leave _ the school. Watched as she sucked in Duke and McNamara. 

He watched her in school, too. He heard so many rumours about her. Some ridiculous ones, like how she was in the mafia or she was descended from royalty. And some that he completely believed, that she controlled her alcoholic mother, that she was the reason every time somebody was crying in Westerburg. And some that were most likely true, and if they were said about any other girl, it would be insane and she’d be a total slut, but because it was Chandler nobody would ever have dared to call the demon queen a whore. People said she’d lost her virginity at twelve, that she did cocaine, that she had a boyfriend in his twenties. 

People forgot she was fifteen, but who could blame them? The makeup she always wore made her look twenty-one. 

She’d looked twenty-one for about three years. 

Once, it had been almost midnight, and he was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. He’d looked over, seen a car on his nightstand and immediately thought of Ram. 

He couldn’t stop himself. 

But he’d never done it again. And it was sleep deprivation. He wasn’t sick and twisted in that way. 

That didn’t matter to the corridors of Westerburg, where he was called fag ten times a day and tripped in the halls. 

He could bet everybody accidentally thought about it, from time to time. They were all horny teenagers. And he wasn’t a fag. He liked girls.

He wasn’t a sick fuck like they all thought he was. Kurt was just a boy. 

And he wanted so much more. He wanted to be popular more than he wanted anything. But there was no chance of that ever happening. He’d been too late. Too afraid. 

He was paying for that now. 

**14/9/1985, Kurt is 14**

Kurt stuck his face in the sink, trying to wash the blood from his cheeks. He didn’t want to look in the mirror, but caught a glimpse as he reached for another paper towel.

He looked even more hideous than usual. A black eye, with bruises instead of cheeks and a cut across his left temple. He could feel the migraine setting in. 

But this was normal. And it was his fault for waking up late. If he didn’t get into first period ten minutes early, he’d get a wedgie and a beating in the boys bathroom. Ram saw to that, every day. 

He’d heard the bell going, but it had been twenty minutes and he couldn’t be bothered to get a late check. The nurse’s office was empty on Friday; it was her day off. He could sneak in and grab supplies. 

Nobody stopped him in the halls, and the lock was easy to pick. Kurt was just reaching for the band aids when he heard voices outside. 

“Maybe we could-” Heather Duke’s voice drifted in through the door, before it was cut off by a snort. “Shut the fuck up, Heather.” Heather Chandler pulled open the door, but then blinked in shock when she saw Kurt standing there with the box in his hands. 

He felt a chill go up in his spine as her lips curled into a perfect smile. McNamara and Duke poked their heads over each of her shoulders, confused at the delay. 

“Kurt Kelly, right?” She was still smiling, but there was an air of menace to her voice. 

He nodded, still standing on the bed. 

“Did you get beat up?” McNamara actually looked concerned, which he wasn’t expecting, but Heather elbowed her back into the door-frame as she walked forwards, blonde curls swishing over her shoulders. 

“Alright sweetheart.” She reached with red nails and grabbed some blue bottle from the nurses desk. “How about you keep your pathetic mouth shut and don’t ever tell anybody we were here, k?” Heather pursed her lips and looked up at him. 

“Come on Heather. Ram probably just beat the shit out of him, why would he say anything?” That was Duke, who sounded annoyed at being left out of the conversation. 

“Why would Ram ever do that?” He knew McNamara was the innocent, nice one, but she had to be putting that on.

“Here.” Heather Chandler held out the bottle to her minions. “Meet me in five.”

Duke looked like she wanted to say something, but snapped the green scrunchie on her wrist and headed off down the hallway with McNamara in tow. 

Heather was still looking at him. Kurt sat down on the bed, because she would be towering above him anyway in those heels. 

“I...I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry. I won’t even ask why you needed it.” God his voice sounded pathetic. Why the hell was he so scared of her? 

Heather sniffed, then turned to head after the other two. Kurt started to let out a sigh of relief, but then she rapped her nails on the doorframe and turned back to him. “I know you.”

He didn’t really know what to say to that. 

“You used to be friends with Ram, right?” She laughed, tilting her head back slightly. “Before he abandoned you? Fuck me, a lot of people have abandoned you, right? Even your mum got tired and ran - my god darling, she ran off with a  _ hobo _ . Your dad must be  _ awful _ in bed.” Those red lips were smirking at him again. “I hope for your sake that’s not an inherited talent.”

Then she disappeared down the hallway, heels clicking the polished floor, leaving Kurt holding the box of bandages staring after her. 

**15/9/1985, Kurt is 14**

There was something he couldn’t get out of his head. 

That conversation with the Heather’s wouldn’t leave his brain. It had been there all of yesterday, and he was replaying it over and over as he poured out cereal and took it upstairs to spend Saturday in solitude. 

It wasn’t really a single thing, it was more an amalgamation. And he wasn’t talking about the insults; if he had a dollar for every time somebody brought up his mum he’d be rich enough to hire somebody to track her down and invite her to come back and live in their new mansion. 

It was more the way the other two...behaved. One minute they were scared, shrinking back from Heather. Then Duke would interrupt, looking confident, and McNamara would stand a little straighter, before they both fell back down again. 

They hadn’t said much, but it had happened over and over.

But the main thing was when he’d caught himself thinking about why he was so scared of Heather, as she looked down on him. 

Why  _ was _ he so scared of Heather?

Truth was, he could remember her in pre-school, but once they started kindergarten he couldn’t think of any specific time when the Heathers weren’t around. McNamara had always been there, almost since the beginning, but Duke had moved to Sherwood - which was something everybody seemed to forget.

And some people didn’t even call the Heathers by surnames. It was red, green and yellow. But Kurt was certain that hadn’t always been the case. They’d started small - actually, that was a lie, Heather had always worn red. But the other two wore full green and yellow everyday, but he was more than certain they’d just started with backpacks and headbands. 

Heather had  _ made _ herself this queen of Westerburg, and nobody questioned her. She’d even managed to control what people remembered about her: everybody knew about Hanna and how she’d gone missing, but Kurt knew she’d just gone back to France. 

If she could make herself popular, then why couldn’t he? B

But his head was still throbbing. 

“What the hell happened to your face?” 

Kurt froze. He’d been trying not to wake his dad up, especially after skipping dinner yesterday just to avoid this very same conversation. 

“Fell over.” Kurt bent down over the bowl, shoving a spoon into his mouth, but his dad yanked his head back and stared at his son's many bruises. 

“Yeah right. So you’re getting into fights now? Why the hell would you be doing that? Only idiots and fags get into fights, and the fags are the ones that get beat up.”

“I didn’t get into a fight sir.” His dad huffed and pulled a chair out from the other side of the table, grabbing a protein bar from the cupboard before he sat down.

“Well your face is still messed up. Maybe we should cancel the appointment.”

His head snapped up. “What appointment?”

“Orthodontists. In an hour. You can finally get rid of those braces.” His dad looked over the bruises again, eyes narrowing. “Huh, maybe it’s an improvement. You can’t see all that acne.”

“Maybe if you told me how to get rid of the acne it wouldn’t be a problem dad.”

Paul looked vaguely shocked. “Why the hell are you suddenly caring so much about how you look? Only fags care about how they look.”

Kurt sighed and dragged himself back up the stairs. “I’ll get dressed for the dentist, then.”

“Look smart!” His dad called after him. 

That was how most conversations went between father, the hypocrite, and son, the failure. Every time he dared to disagree or talk back, his dad found some way to accuse him of either being a homo, which was common, or being a failure, which was on the good days. 

Ever since his mum had left, his dad had grown tougher and colder. He openly told Kurt that he was ashamed of him, that he shouldn’t be such a coward. That if you didn’t man up you’d never get a job, never get a wife, never get money. Kurt had to man up, apparently. Pass on the family name. 

Bring glory, or some bullshit. He didn’t know and he didn’t care.

Home was just as shitty as getting beat up in the toilets. 

**24/10/1985, Kurt is 14**

“This is the second fight this week, Mr Kelly.” Miss Fleming stared over her glasses at him, drumming her nails against the desk. “If you begin any more fights, there will be serious suspension in your future.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and slouched back in the red armchair of the guidance counsellors office. This was bullshit. 

What could he tell this hippie, though? That he’d got tired of doing nothing and punched back? That he was trying to be stronger, trying to give himself a reputation? She wouldn’t understand. 

And he’d actually  _ won _ this fight. Beat the crap out an arsehole from the year above. It had felt amazing….until he was dragged down here for an impromptu and unrequested therapy session. 

“I’m gonna go off the book here, ok Kurt?” He rolled his eyes again. “You used to be such a bright, focused student. It was a delight to teach you. But, to paraphrase here, these violent delights you’re partaking in will have violent ends. I need you to try and look at…”

She kept droning on, so he stopped listening. 

It was the first morning that he could remember where he’d arrived late and not been beaten up by Ram. His old best friend had just looked at him, then walked off into the corridor. 

Was he impressed? Scared? No, that was wishful thinking. But it had felt good, all the same. 

He wasn’t just doing this, changing, to become more like Ram. 

Or at least that wasn’t the only reason, something he was constantly denying to himself. 

Miss Fleming coughed, pulling him out of his thoughts, and he realised she’d just asked him a question. 

“What?” He’d decided that it was easier to just be a dick to teachers, especially the ones that thought they could be your friend. 

“I asked if you thought you were acting out to try and impress your father, or possibly because you think it might make your mother-”

He stood up, heading for the door. “Yeah, no, we’re done here.”

She stood up too, arms crossed over her plaid jumper. “Mr Kelly, you don’t need to try and push away everybody who wants to help-”

“But you aren’t fucking helping,  _ ma’am _ .” Then he slammed the door shut, heading down the hallway to god knows where. 

**2/1/1986, Kurt is 15**

His father was gone by the time Kurt woke up. It was easier that way. No awkward confrontations, no arguments. He could just sit down and watch some shitty tv show. 

Paul hadn’t ever stuck around for his birthday. When she was still alive, his nan had come down. But that stopped five years ago. 

Birthdays weren’t celebrated in the Kelly household. Because it was a birthday she left on, and every year her absence became ever more apparent. It was another full year since he’d seen his own mother. 

She was never coming back. He’d realised that on his eleventh, and made his peace with it. She’d never been seen in Westerburg again, and why would she come back for her abandoned son? Kurt didn’t know what had happened to her, but he just ignored it most of the year. 

It was harder today, for some reason. Maybe because he felt so different. 

He  _ was  _ different. 

It had only been a couple of months since his conversation with Heather, but now instead of acne his face was riddled in bruises. And he liked it. The pain when somebody hit him was a distraction, a way to turn off his brain. 

And his brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up. 

His dad had stopped calling him so weak, since the report came back that Kurt was causing fights. All he’d had to say was that they were fags and he was patted on the back. 

But today, as he sat down and ate cereal in a kitchen absent of cake and banners, with his back to a room empty of family and presents, Kurt couldn’t help but wonder what his mum would have thought of all this. 

Because Kelly wasn’t a nerd and a fag in the hallways anymore. Everybody avoided him. And he was losing less and less. 

He’d ensured that, after about his fifth fight. He only attacked the ones he knew wouldn’t beat him. Now he was only losing to the old bullies who liked to make him seem weak. But he was getting stronger. Soon they’d be toppled. 

He smoked in class, too. Talked back. Skipped detentions and sessions with the guidance counsellors. He was making a name for himself, like Heather had done all those years ago. 

Better late than never, right?

His mum, from the faded memories that surfaced every time he looked at the old photograph hidden at the bottom of his underwear drawer, was kind. She probably wouldn’t have approved. 

But fuck her. She’d left. So he didn’t have to prove anything anymore. 

Two nights ago he’d heard Ram’s party for new years in full swing. It was the first year that he probably could have gone. But he didn’t want to. 

The smoking had started accidentally. And now he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. And it felt good, to know that he was the one hurting himself. Because if he did it then the bullies couldn’t.

Except...he was the bully now, wasn’t he?

**11/3/1986, Kurt is 15**

He was late. Again. He was always late now. 

It hadn’t actually been his fault, this time. Normally it was because he stopped to buy a beer or cigarettes (the corner store employees couldn’t give a shit about your age if you looked tough enough). And yeah, he’d stared at himself in the mirror for a while when he woke up. But Kurt couldn’t help it. 

His face was actually clear today, of both spots and black eyes. He hadn’t taken a punch to the face in a month. There were muscles in his arms for the first time, the braces were long gone, and he actually looked like somebody you wouldn’t want to mess with. Somebody not with a cheerleader on their arm, but a rebel chick with tongue piercings and tattoos. 

He liked it. 

But it wasn’t the reason he was late. That belonged to his father, who’d decided they needed to have a conversation just as Kurt was about to rush out of the door.  “I’ve met somebody, son.” His dad had said from the table. It had stopped him for a second. 

“Oh yeah, who is he?” They’d both laughed, then his dad had pulled a picture from his wallet. It was a pretty blonde, with blue eyes and a smokers mouth, but she looked about twenty to his dads forty-seven. 

“Name’s Brianna. She’s a waitress at that cake place that Sanchez runs on the high street. I want you to come to dinner with us tonight, so don’t get a black eye if you can help it.”

By the time Kurt got outside, the bus was gone and he was stuck in the wind, feeling like he was ten and walking in the snow. 

Those boys were either druggies or in prison now. He wasn’t gonna end up like them. 

He was gonna get a job, get a girl and have kids. Hopefully a son. Maybe get a job at that mechanics place. Stay in Westerburg. 

There was one main difference in his life now; his home. There was barely any fighting, instead he and his dad were actually getting alone.

Because Kurt had finally grown a pair and toughened up. He hadn’t done it for his father, but being able to go downstairs without getting yelled at was a nice bonus.

He was ready to chill in the corridor for fifteen minutes to kill time till his free period, but the fat girl crying on the stairs stopped him. 

Martha looked up, drying her eyes when she saw him staring down at her. “Oh, hey Kurt. Long time no see, huh?” She sniffed. 

Pathetic. He could see why she got bullied so much. 

“Right, well, you’re in my way Martha.”

She moved over, but turned to face him as he passed. “Thank you, Kurt.”

He paused. “The fuck for?”

“For not calling me Dumptruck.” She smiled, rubbing her eyes. “I expected it from you. I see the fights you start, though I don’t stay around to watch.”

Martha stood up, looking down at the floor. 

For some reason, Kurt felt compelled to ask her why she was ok. But it only lasted a second. 

He could remember when he first met Martha, aged six. It had stuck in his mind and he didn’t know why. She’d been holding a teddy bear, and had walked over and shook his hand. Kurt had actually been scared for a moment. But then she’d laughed and ran back over to her friend with a big blue bow, apologising because it was a dare. 

They’d been friends, when they were younger. She was sat next to him in a couple classes, and before he realised that you had to be in with the popular kids or be a loner to be respected, he was happy to actually have  _ somebody _ . Even if she was innocent and naive and more than chubby. 

‘Well, you’re not that fat’ was what he’d been about to say. But the words got stuck when the front doors swung open and Ram strutted through, stopping short when he saw the two of them 

“You’re kidding, right?” Some arsehole with an afro in a basketball jersey guffawed from behind Ram. “Dumptruck bagged Kelly?”

“Her parents probably paid for it.” Another jock added. 

Ram raised his eyebrows. 

And Kurt pushed Martha down onto the steps, managing not to wince when she cried out. “Please. Even if they paid I wouldn’t.”

Ram laughed at that, then offered Kurt a cigarette. “You wanna ditch with us Kelly?”

So he took it and puffed, pretending not to care at the look on Martha’s face as she started crying again. 

**29/3/1986, Kurt is 16**

“My buddy Kurt asked you a question.” Ram leered at the kid handing out flyers in the lunchroom. 

“Nah, leave it.” Kurt sat back against the bench. “If the fag wants to try and raise awareness then that’s his problem.”

The guys frowned at him. Shit. Did he just make himself look weak?

“Got a dinner tonight with my dad's new girl.” He lied quickly. “Don’t wanna bloody my knuckles.” 

Along came the laughter. The kid with the flyers fucked off, and the conversation went back to football. Kurt tried to pay attention, but a flash of purple caught his eye. 

Martha was sitting by herself, drinking a carton of orange juice and drawing. 

Almost immediately he was taken back to that morning. The morning that got him in with Ram, that made him the second most popular guy in school. 

But when he lay there at night, he couldn’t help thinking about her. What he would have said if Ram hadn’t shown up. How they used to be friends. How she was the nicest person he knew. And how he pushed her down to pull himself up. 

“Hey baby.” The sound of Heather pulled him out of his thoughts. She wrapped her arms around his neck, sitting herself down at the edge of the bench. 

Chandler rolled her eyes, but dragged McNamara away. 

“Hey you.” Kurt kissed her temple, setting his arm around her shoulders and tugging at her green dress straps. The other guys rolled their eyes. 

“Why would ever limit yourself like that, man?” Cormack sniggered at Heather’s impression as she gave him the finger. 

“Who said it was a limitation?” Ram winked at Chandler, but she just smirked at him as she sat down at the center table next to theirs. 

Kurt drifted away from the group again, his eyes falling back to Martha. 

She was looking right at him. A small smile on her lips.

And for a split second, he was tempted to smile back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't feel too sorry for Kurt. Remember he's the arsehole from You're Welcome and Blue. 
> 
> If you ever feel like he does, don't turn to fighting and smoking. Make friends. It'll be ok. ;)
> 
> And I'd just like to add, as an omnisexual person, I wanted to strangle Kurt's dad through my computer screen as I wrote him.
> 
> The next chapter is the worst emotionally, so whilst I hope it'll be up in two weeks I make no promises. I want to do it justice. And a note: because it's about Ram, there will be some repeated scenes, like the one in the snow, but told from the other side. And obviously lots of new stuff. 
> 
> [ say hi :) ](http://scones-and-slushies.tumblr.com/)  
x


	6. Why Do We Build The Wall?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We may never run out of -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter:
> 
> \- Parental abuse  
\- Internalised & external homophobia  
\- Bullying  
\- Underage sex/drugs/drinking  
\- Self loathing  
\- Suicidal thoughts  
\- Fat shaming
> 
> Saying enjoy sounds too morbid. How about here we go?

**2/1/1976, Ram is 5**

“Mummy, I thought it was Kurt’s birthday today.” It was just after dinner, and Ram was in bed, but he still hadn’t seen Kurt today. 

Kurt was Ram’s best friend in the entire world, so he’d brought limited edition monster trucks for them to play with. But his parents had refused to take him round, so he’d had to play by himself. 

Playing with monster trucks by yourself  _ sucked _ . And he really wanted to see Kurt, despite the silly things he kept imagining between them. 

“Oh, honey.” His mum sat down on the racing car duvet, folding her hands. When Ram grew up, he wanted to marry somebody just like his mum. She was pretty, and kind. 

“His parents are having some trouble right now, so next year we’re gonna buy Kurt two presents to make up for it, ok? But you can see him soon, and don’t worry.”

“Okay!” Sometimes his dad would yell, because Ram wasn’t listening to him, but his mum never yelled, so Ram always listened to her. “Can you tell me a story?”

“It’s quite late, honey.”

“Pleeeeeease?” Ram hopes there was a cute smile on his face. He tried for puppy dog eyes.

“Alright.” His mum sighed, kissing his forehead and lying next to him. “Have I told you the one about the stars?”

“Nope!”

“Well, here we go then -”

“Don’t you need a book?” He liked looking at the pictures, because reading was hard, but his mum shook her head. “No honey, this story doesn’t have a book.”

That was weird, but he was too tired to look at pictures anyway. Ram snuggled against his mum, determined to stay awake for the entire story.

“Once upon a time, there was a princess who fell madly in love with a servant. The King, her father, was a kind man, and since the princess was his only child, he let them marry. When the King died, the princess and servant took the throne, and they were loved by their entire kingdom, for they were good, kind rulers.”

“Like you mum!”

She laughed. “If you say so honey. However, the new King and Queen were dreamers, and they would look out at the lands surrounding the kingdom imagining all the great things they could do for the people if they had more space. So one day, the King sent out soldiers to take the lands. But invaders do not conquer peacefully, and the new lands were seized with fire and bloodshed.”

“That’s mean!”

“I know honey. Even though the new areas of the Kingdom were tidied and made beautiful, with more area for farming and new homes for new people, they still stunk of death. Eventually, the gods themselves took notice of the Empire that the King and Queen had created, and so on the rulers deaths, with the lands passed onto children much less inclined to invade, the gods took the King and Queen up the heavens, in the bodies of their younger selves.”

“How many gods are there mum?”

“In this story? Many, one for each part of life.” That was slightly confusing, but Ram shrugged it off and started to yawn. “For the first time, the princess and servant could see all the damage they had done, and all the lives that had been cut short in their conquests. So, as punishment, for the gods do not care about good intentions, the princess and servant were sent to opposite ends of the heavens as constellations, only able to see each other, but never speak.”

Ram frowned. “I don’t like that.”

His mum laughed again. “I’m sure you would have been much kinder sweetie. Anyway. The servant was devastated at being split from the love of his life, and declared that he would ask the gods for a different punishment that the couple could share together. But the princess had learned her lesson, and so did not complain as she was led away.  _ Don’t be foolish my love _ , she called to the servant as they were separated.  _ We have all of space to explore now. Why, we may never run out of sky _ …”

Ram jumped up. “Is that it?”

“Yes honey. Now go to sleep.”

“But that’s not fair.” He jumped off the bed, narrowly avoiding crushing a toy car. “They were separated. And what did the princess even mean?”

“Come here honey.” His mum picked Ram up and walked over to the window, twirling a brown curl round her index finger like she always did when she was thinking. “Do you see all these stars?”

They looked like sprinkles in the sky, but Ram felt stupid saying that. “Yep! They glow pretty. And there’s so  _ many _ .”

His mum smiled and kissed his forehead again as she laid him back down on the bed. “The princess was an explorer, and a dreamer. Even though she was separated from the man she loved, she could now see all of the stars in the sky. That’s what she meant.”

Ram yawned. He was too tired to try and think. “So, she was sad about one thing but happy about another.”

“Exactly.” His mum ruffled his hair and turned to the door. “It’s important that when something bad happens, you look for the good things in life and never stop exploring.”

“Ok mum.” He was really sleepy now. “G’night.”

“Goodnight honey.” She wanted to say something more, but Ram was already sleeping as the door closed. 

**24/8/1982, Ram is 10**

It was his birthday. 

Ram knew he was supposed to have a party, or something. His mum had baked a cake, but everybody was ignoring the bruise on her cheek. His father barely smiled anymore. And Delilah just kept crying. 

Well, Delilah was a baby, so that wasn’t  _ really _ her fault. 

He was only ten. But he didn’t feel like a ten year old. 

It was his job to look after Delilah, because his mum was never home. Gone were the days she would sit there looking pretty with her brown hair and blue eyes, because now she would drink and do anything to escape his father. 

Gone were the days of bedtime stories and playing happy families. 

Ram barely escaped his dad's fists, because most of the time he was holding a baby in his arms and his mother was an easier target. He’d thought she was brave and kind and like the princess from the story she’d told him, but now he knew better. She was weak. Cowering like a kicked puppy. 

The doorbell rang, startling Ram out of his thoughts. There had been a pack of beer from his father, and a pen from his mother, but that was it until his grandmother came to act like she was rich and could throw away money. But she wasn’t expected till later. 

Whatever. She was probably early. And he’d at least get a twenty for putting up with her. 

“Yeah -” Ram opened the door with a mouthful of cereal, but stopped short when he was the figure on the porch. 

Kurt Kelly. 

Supposedly his best friend. 

But Ram didn’t know anymore. He didn’t really know anything, because he sucked at school. All he knew was appear tough and grow up and make sure his sister was okay. But Kurt knew about school and school and school. And stupid rain coats and being a child. 

Hell, Kurt’s mum had ditched them and the whole town knew about it. Didn’t that make him want to be a little bit tougher? 

They were supposed to be best friends. Ram was only ten. He didn’t know things. And how he felt about Kurt confused him.

“Happy birthday!” That smile pissed him off, because it wasn’t fake. “I got you this!”

“Oh, erm, great.” He was so much taller than Kurt. “Firetruck wrapping. Nice.” And his voice was deeper. “And a… car.”

“Yeah, like we used to play with!” Ram wasn’t that bright, but he could spot a forced laugh. “But this is, like, a collectable kind of thing.”

“Fantastic.” 

This was awkward in a way Ram wasn’t expecting. Should he invite him in? No, he didn’t want to put up with him. Goddammit, how had they been so close only a few months ago? His baby sister had changed everything. 

“So, erm…” Kurt dug his heel into the muddy front lawn. “Are you doing anything?”

“What, like a party?” Ram held back a snort. “Nah. I have to look after Delilah.”

As if on cue, his sister's wails echoed through the walls of the house. 

“Oh, look, I better… erm, go check on her. My parents aren’t home.” That wasn’t a lie, they were visiting his uncle in hospital. Heart attack. “So…”

“Oh, ok!” More fake laughter. He should have said something more. Invited Kurt in. But it was so awkward. And they were supposed to be best friends. And he didn’t know anything. 

Ram swung the door shut before Kurt could get another word out and headed to his sisters room. 

She was sitting in her cot, staring up at him. 

“Delilah, if you start crying, I’ma riot. You’re supposed to be nice on my birthday.”

Rolling his eyes, Ram carried her downstairs and balanced her with one arm as he searched for a bottle of milk. This was ridiculous. He was ten. And it was his birthday. 

Really, he should be outside with Kurt. Messing around in the snow, or with stupid toy cars like everybody else his age did. But Ram hadn’t just grown up mentally, forced to pretty much take care of a baby night and day. He’d grown taller, and his voice had grown deeper. Early maturity, that’s what his father had said one night. Some genetic thing he didn’t understand. 

So he towered above his class, and children didn’t like to look up because they felt like they were looking at an adult. 

Delilah started crying again, even when Ram fed her and burped her and rocked her as he collapsed onto the sofa. He felt like crying with her. 

What had happened between him and Kurt? It was like some invisible line had been drawn, and there was no way for him to cross back over. Between his dads rage and his mother's tears and his sister, Ram didn’t have time for friends. 

Maybe he should just accept it…

**9/12/1982, Ram is 10**

“Aren’t you a bit young?” 

Yeah right. Like this boy wasn’t in the year above, cigarette hanging from between his mouth. Fuck off poser. 

“So what?” Thank god his voice had lowered. And that he was tall. And that his father had brought him this coat last week. It protected Ram from the world and the snow. “I have money.”

“Adorable.” One of the other boys laughed, shaking his afro out of his hood. “Whatever Jensen, just give him one.”

Jensen rolled his eyes, but started to pull another cigarette from the box when a squeaky voice broke through the huddle. 

“Ram! Ram!”

Oh fuck. 

“Hey!” This fucking idiot - with his red earmuffs and too-bright smile. 

Ram scowled at him, even though the stupid child part that had been Kurt’s best friend wanted to drag him away into the snow to save him. 

Everyone in the group either snorted or raised an eyebrow. The stupid idiot that used to be one of the most important people in the world turned to Jenson, cigarette still hanging from his lips. 

Ram zoned out, still caught up in the memories of toy cars and his mum taking the place of Kurt’s and family dinners and sleepovers. 

Almost too late, he laughed along with the rest of the group, even though Kurt’s face made him want to cry. 

“Yo, Sweeney.” That was from Tommo, with his stupid nose ring. “Who the fuck is this dickwad?”

Tommo was from three years above. Kinda sad.

Fuck Kurt. Fuck his stupid face for coming in here and messing things up and making him feel stupid for being ten and acting like a teenager even though that’s exactly what he looked like. Fuck the memories. Fuck his mother, with her stupid laugh and stupid stories about finding the good in the bad, and fuck her cowardice that he now understood. Fuck everybody. 

Fuck his stupid,  _ stupid _ heart. 

“Nobody I know.” Ram pulled a cigarette, used, that he’d stolen from his dad earlier. He looked into the snow, feeling the strangest mix of hate and guilt and jealousy and everything in between. 

God, what could he say? I hate you, Kurt Kelly, for interfering. I’m sorry, Kurt Kelly, for abandoning you and changing and hurting you and being forced to grow up. I’m so jealous of you, Kurt Kelly, cause your dad ignores you and your mum left but you’re still a stupid  _ stupid _ kid and all I want is to be a kid. 

“Some neighbour kid. His dad and mine are friends, so he thinks he can just fucking follow me everywhere.”

He could see Tommo’s hands squeezing Kurt’s shoulder, and it made him want to scream and burst into tears and punch everybody. 

But Ram just walked away into the snow. 

The taunts followed him, then the crying. Every time he heard a punch, Ram felt like  _ he _ was the one being hit. 

He couldn’t go back. He was ten, for fucks sake. He didn’t know anything. He didn’t know a father who scolded instead of slapping. He’d almost forgotten what his mum's smile looked like. And she sure as hell didn’t care about either of her children. 

Kurt came into school late, right in the middle of geography, cradling his arm, sporting a split lip and a black eye. Ram ignored him. 

Sometimes he felt like the volcanoes they were learning about, boiling under the surface, always ready to erupt with rage. 

**19/9/1985, Ram is 14**

“Dad, I can’t run for captain. Detroit is great at it, and I'm not even that good of a linebacker.”

“Bullshit!” His dad was enraged. You could tell, because he was bright red and spitting, grabbing Ram by the shoulders. “If you can’t get the grades, then you do sports!”

“I get the grades, dad!”

“Really?” Fuck. His dad had gone quiet.

For some stupid,  _ stupid _ reason, Ram hadn’t opened the envelope with his grade summary for last year. 

“Bill?” That was his mum. “What’s going on -”

“Do you see these grades?” His dad was yelling again. “He’s failing everything!”

Sometimes, when his dad wasn’t home, Ram would watch his mum. How she hovered at the edge of every conversation, letting the words get trapped inside of her. Never interrupting. 

Pathetic. But he couldn’t blame her. 

“Bill…” Ram couldn’t believe he’d once trusted that weak little voice. 

“Dad, I made the team! That’s better than nothing!” 

His dad turned back to him, still enraged. 

Ram didn’t even see the slap coming. But it knocked him backwards into the table, sending the fruit bowl crashing to the floor. 

And still his mum just sat there, not moving, barely breathing. 

_ Broken _ . 

“Daddy?”

“Delilah, go back upstairs.” At least his mum protected her daughter. Ram got his feet, wobbling slightly. 

“Actually no.” 

“Dad, leave her -”

“Come here honey.” His little sister, lamb onesie and pink slippers, tired eyes and frizzy brown curls, really the only person he cared about in the world - which was kind of bad considering he was dating Heather McNamara - padding over to the man he hated most. 

His dad took Delilah by the shoulder and dropped down to her height, showing her the paper. “Do you see these?”

“I don’t know what they mean daddy.”

“That’s ok; these are grades. Like those gold stars you get on your spelling tests.” His dad was never kind. Ram braced his knuckles on the kitchen table. 

“Ok…”

“But these are your brother's grades. And they’re  _ bad _ . They mean he’s failing -”

“Bill, leave her alone.” His mum pulled Delilah back behind her. Ram’s jaw twitched. “She’s too young to -”

Another slap, sending her flying backwards. 

Ram pulled Delilah into his arms and ran up the stairs to her bedroom. The dull thuds, the shrieks, the pleading - it followed them even when Ram slammed the door shut.

His sister started crying. 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. It’s ok.” Ram hugged her, trying to move his hands over her ears so she couldn’t hear. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna stay here with you tonight, ok?”

“I don’t understand.” Delilah whimpered between sobs. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no you didn’t.” He wanted to run away and send her halfway across the country where she’d be safe, but he couldn’t. “You did nothing wrong, ok? Come on, get into bed.”

She was still crying, even as he wrapped his arms around her because she refused to sleep alone. 

Everything made him angry. 

His dad. His mum. Failure, over and over and over. Seeing his face in the mirror and knowing that he was approved by everybody. Seeing everybody who he bullied. Dating Heather. Not dating Heather. When he’d slept with HC after they both got blind drunk. 

But his sister crying?

That didn’t make him angry. That made him want to cry. 

If it wasn’t for Delilah, Ram wasn’t sure if he could have held on. 

Because he sure as hell didn’t want to. 

**11/11/1985, Ram is 14**

This kid was getting on Ram’s nerves. 

He elbowed Cormack. “Look, I have practise later. Coach’ll get suspicious.”

Cormack raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so I’m doing your dirty work?”

“Half the cut.”

Cormack rolled his eyes, but slammed the midget sophomore against the lockers anyway. 

Today had been a hell of a day, and it was only lunch. His punching bag had been early, Delilah had made him seriously late because she didn’t want to hand in her science project, and he was in an off-period with Heather because she was… well, he didn’t know. He didn’t pay attention. Probably why she broke up with him. 

He didn’t enjoy dating. 

Which sounded so stupid. 

But it was just too much effort. And he was never really attracted to anybody. He sure as hell wasn’t attracted to Heather, even though she was, what - the third hottest or something? 

Cormack passed over a ten dollar bill, but Ram couldn’t deal with the extra beatings today.

He didn’t even enjoy sex. 

Well, he was technically underage. But whatever. Ram was probably responsible for the loss of the virginity of at least half the school. 

He only did it to let out anger. Kissing like he wanted to break the bitch in half. Leaving blood on her lips. Desire, so strong it became rage that made his hands shake. And never staying for long, so that they couldn’t see the madness behind his eyes. Because it was so easy to mistake for love. 

“Hey Sweeney.” He knew who it was by the stench, even before she slipped her black nails over his shoulder. 

Vanessa Brekker. Cigarette addict. Sophomore. Hot enough, but her blonde roots were always showing even though she claimed the raven hair was natural.

“What do you want, Brekker?” He resisted the urge to slam her against the locker and peel her stupid talons off of his shoulder, because he could see Mac watching him and why the hell not make her jealous? 

Besides, the other two were grinning. So HC wasn’t gonna do anything to him. 

“I heard you were on an off period with the little blonde girl?" Vanessa leant back against the locker, probably just so he could see her tits that she  _ totally  _ wasn’t pushing up. They’d made out a couple times, but only when he was drunk. “Maybe she’s not enough for you.”

Mac looked like she wanted to cry. It made him feel stupidly good.  And then he caught Kurt Kelly’s eye as he slipped out of the boys toilets. 

It was only for a split second, but it made Ram’s blood boil. 

Vanessa twisted one of his curls round her index finger. Mac headed down the hallway, HC grabbing her arms to pull her upright. 

Fuck everything. 

“What're you gonna do about it, then?”

**1/1/1986, Ram is 14**

“Midniiiiiiiight!” Everybody screamed, throwing plastic cups and joints and whatever else they could into the air. 

Ram was drunk. 

And probably high, because he vaguely remembered smoking a blunt two hours ago. 

His parents and Delilah were gone, off to his grandmothers. But his dad refused to take Ram, as punishment. Or reward. Or something. He couldn’t really remember. 

Somebody was sitting on his leg. Maybe Mac? No, they had black hair. Oh right - Vanessa. Were they dating? They made out a lot, but they hadn’t slept together even though that was the only reason Ram wanted to be with her. 

The lights were hazy. People moved in blurs. He could barely talk. 

Getting drunk was so easy. Sometimes he wished he could stay like this forever. In this haze, with Vanessa rambling into his ear, with the lights flashing and the music blaring and the people everywhere who  _ loved  _ him. These people didn’t know about his dad or his mum or his sister or anything. Hell,  _ he _ didn’t really remember why he hated his father after the fifth shot. Why he had to care for his sister. Why his mum cowered. 

Vanessa moved, but he didn’t even care. He never cared about them. Somebody tucked a joint behind his ear and laughed that stupid stoner laugh, but he didn’t care. He could barely hear. 

He stumbled across the room and collapsed into the couch, vaguely watching the rest of the team play beer pong. There were no neighbours coming to stop them or complain, which was odd but whatever it wasn’t like he would listen. 

Across the road, cut down the path, High Street. Number 6. He could still remember the route. 

Ram only thought about Kurt Kelly,  _ really _ thought about him, when he was drunk or high or both. No, not thought about - really  _ missed _ him. 

Missed the person he could have been. 

Which was ridiculous. 

Kurt Kelly was the scum of the school. Beat up every morning. A total nerd. Nobody knew his name. Nobody liked him. He was nothing. 

And whenever Ram saw him, still moving, still living, still just being there as a reminder of everything that Ram could have been, the boy he could have had, it made him  _ so fucking angry _ . 

He was always so angry. 

**13/2/1986, Ram is 14**

This was total bullshit. 

“Ma’am, with all respect, this is total bullshit.” He’d said, rolling his eyes at the woman wearing hippie clothes, dangly earrings and brown glasses. 

“Language, Mr Sweeney.” Miss Fleming had folded her arms and stared down her nose from across the desk. No wonder she wasn’t married. “And this isn’t up for discussion. I take my duties as guidance counsellor very seriously, and whilst you have a talent for sports, your grades are slipping and have been for the past year.”

“I don’t want an academic future!”

“And I don’t want to hear it.” Then she’d stood up and opened the door for him, sighing like the weight of the world was on her shoulders, or at least the world of teenagers. “You’ll meet your tutor  _ now _ , in the library, or I will personally see you removed 

And so here he was, waiting in the library. 

Somebody barrelled through the double doors, holding a pink backpack. 

Oh please god no. 

If this was his karma, he wanted to wring God’s neck. 

Martha Dumptruck, with her bright red Minnie Mouse XXL jumper and baggy jeans, standing panting and smiling in front of him. “I am sooo sorry I’m late. They only told me about five minutes ago, and then I had to prepare, and…”

She kept droning on, squeezing into the seat next to him. 

He hated her most of all. 

Not because she was a useless fat nerd, those were fairly common. 

No, she was just so…  _ nice _ . Handing out smiles like it didn’t cost anything, to bullies and sluts and geeks alike. No matter how cruel they were to her. No matter what was whispered just loud enough to be heard. No matter how many times she fell in the halls. 

He couldn’t do this without beating her up. 

“Yeah, ok, great, I’m leaving.” He slammed the chair back into the shelf and swung his duffel bag over his back. Martha stared up at him with big brown eyes in confusion. 

“Wait, no, you can’t go! I’m supposed to tutor you.”

“So fucking lie, Dumptruck.” He sauntered off before she could reply, trusting that the idiot would cover for him. Not the smartest move, but he couldn’t be near her without remembering. 

And remembering pissed him off. 

Because Martha Dumptruck was his first kiss. 

Even though he’d wanted to kiss somebody else first. 

Even though it had been so wrong, what he felt. What he wanted. So he buried it under bullies and drinks and drugs and women. 

But seeing Martha was just a reminder of everything he’d wanted for himself, and could never have. 

Everything that was so,  _ so  _ wrong. 

**11/3/1986, Ram is 14**

“Let’s just blow it off, dude.” Ram slicked his cigarette into the bin and strolled down the corridor, followed by Cormack, Hunter and Detroit. “It’s not like we’re gonna get graded on a fucking Sex Ed workshop.”

“It’s not like we need the workshop anyway.” Hunter bragged, swigging from a flask that stank of cider. Everybody else laughed, but Ram was stopped by the sight on the front steps as he swung open the doors. 

Kurt, staring down at Martha with a look that could only be described as kind. 

Kurt had changed. Become tough. A bully. Ram had been watching him, but he was nothing but a side character. Everybody knew his name because they dodged him in the hallways, not because they actually respected him for any reason other than mild fear. 

Looking at them, Ram felt a sudden wave of jealousy. 

_ Jealousy _ ?

What the fuck was there to be jealous of?

“You’re kidding, right?” Detroit leered over his shoulder, snorting with laughter. “Dumptruck bagged Kelly?”

“Her parents probably paid for it.” Cormack added to a chorus of laughter. 

Ram remembered HC, in the corridors. When they were kids. She didn’t join in the teasing, oh no, she just stood there and stared and judged. Even when Mac and Duke were laughing behind her. 

So he simply raised his eyebrows, trying to ignore the muddle in his head. 

But then Kelly shoved Martha down the steps, a grin on his face. “Please. Even if they paid I wouldn’t.”

That day in the snow. Had Ram looked like that to him? Nothing more than a bully, a useless coward. 

Had he done this? Started this? Made Kurt like this?

Because Kurt was supposed to be the nice one. The smart one. That’s how it had always been when they were kids. 

Just like that day, Ram laughed almost too late. 

**30/3/1986, Ram is 14**

“This is a kids game.” HC sniffed, strutting away with Detroit following her. Everybody else laughed. 

They were at HC’s house, getting progressively drunker on Easter until somebody suggested spin the bottle. 

“My go?” Kurt had Duke sitting on his lap, making stupid laughs every time he spoke. 

The glass slid across the floor, and pointed to Ram. 

Almost without thinking, he leant forwards. 

_ Fuck _ . What the hell was he doing?

Everybody raised an eyebrow, and Duke started laughing, so Ram did too. 

“Yeah right.” He fell back onto the floor, resting his hands behind his head. “That’s not my shit.”

“Oh but Mac, did you hear about Latrice? It’s totally her thing…” Duke was babbling about something, but Ram wasn’t paying attention. 

He was thinking about Kurt. 

“Gimme a mo, y’all. I need a refill.” He shoved himself off the floor and headed to the drinks, then slipped into the crowd and slammed a bathroom door shut behind him. 

Ram fell back against the tiles, head in his hands and heart pounding. 

_ What the hell was he doing _ ? 

Kurt had only been hanging with them for a couple weeks. But he was already everywhere that Ram looked. Hanging out with Duke. Trying for the team. Not cowering at the lockers but heading right down the middle of the hall. 

No no no no no. 

Ram turned on the shower and let the freezing water rush down his face. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about Kurt. His stupid face. How he’d looked as a kid; chubby with red earmuffs and a too-big smile. How he looked now; laid back and fit and popular. Sports kit and muscles. 

Kurt’s arm around his shoulders. All the lights and the noise. Kurt’s stupid fucking eyes and the music was pounding through his skull. He could see everything and he didn’t know anything. 

What could have happened. Kurt’s mouth on his. Sharing the same breath. He wasn’t ever attracted to the girls. 

_ No no no no no _ . 

He wasn’t. They weren’t…

Ram slammed his hand over the shower button and pushed through the people into the night. It was cold and there were stars. So many stars. 

_ We may never run out of sky… _

He should get home. Delilah was there. He needed to take care of her. Nothing else mattered. 

They could never be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How depressing. I've also come up with a couple of bonus chapter ideas, mainly because I'm just really enjoying this writing style. 
> 
> Again remember that this is Ram the arsehole. I'm trying to make him almost redeemable (almost). 
> 
> Stay safe everyone, especially if you're out protesting  
[ say hi :) ](http://scones-and-slushies.tumblr.com/)  
x


	7. You'd Rather Live In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may have fucked up a little...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:
> 
> \- Bullying  
\- Fat shaming  
\- Parental abandonment  
\- Frequent panic attacks

**15/11/1982, Martha is 10**

“Oh, come oooooooon Veronica!” Martha giggled. “You should meet more people.”

Veronica frowned at her, blue bow flopping to one side. She looked like Daisy Duck. “If you want to play matchmaker, fine. But I’m staying here.” 

Martha laughed, because she could never understand why Veronica would consider sitting on the floor reading as something  _ fun _ , whilst all the other kids played. 

But Veronica was smart, and she helped Martha pass spelling tests, and seemed to know everything about everyone. Plus, she never stopped Martha from doing anything. Which was nice. 

Oh, except from that time Martha had wanted to befriend Heather Chandler. Veronica had outright refused. She didn’t really like dealing with too many people. 

“Is it Tricia?” Martha smiled down at the black-haired girl playing in the sand with a bucket. 

“Oh, Martha, right?” Tricia grinned back, patting the spot on the wall next to her. “What are you after?”

“It’s nothing much, really. Just…” Martha pointed over at Heather McNamara, drawing a few feet away with chalk. “I know that you’re new here, but I saw you liked art, so I wondered if you guys would, well, I don’t know…”

Tricia laughed slightly, and Martha felt her cheeks go pink. “I wanted to go and talk to her, but I didn’t know her name.”

“Oh!” Martha clapped her hands. This was  _ easy _ . “It’s Heather. Heather McNamara.

“Alright, thanks.” Tricia smiled and clambered out of the sandpit, making her way over. Martha saw Heather look up, and then she headed back to Veronica. 

“Have fun?” Veronica muttered, clearly more focused on the pages of her book

It was fun, actually. Making people happy. 

“Yep!” Martha grinned, throwing her arms round Veronica’s shoulders, knocking her bow off completely. 

Today was a good day. 

**19/11/1982, Martha is 11**

“Ok ladies.” Her dad smiled. “I have to get to work.” He kissed them both on the forehead, taking a chocolate finger from the cake in the middle of the table. “Have fun!”

Her mum turned to her, grinning. “So, what movie should we watch?”

“Mum, it’s  _ my _ birthday. I don’t want to watch Cinderella  _ again _ !”

Her mum laughed, cutting off another slice of cake for herself. Veronica had been by earlier with her parents, giving Martha a teddy bear and box of chocolates that she  _ totally _ hadn’t already eaten. 

“Ok then, you’re a big girl now.” Her mum grinned. “Think you can finally watch Sleeping Beauty?”

“Oh my gosh mum, that only scared me when I was a little girl!” But they were both laughing. 

“Sleeping Beauty it is.” Her mum was smiling, and Martha thought about how she liked watching Cinderella because Ella’s mum always reminded her of her own. Sure, her mum had brown hair, and Martha definitely wasn't a princess, but they shared the same sort of values. Kindness, mainly. 

Martha loved her dad, and she knew she wasn’t supposed to love one of her parents more, but her mum was her best friend, apart from Veronica. They spent most of their time together, when she wasn’t out playing or at school. 

“Are you coming slow-poke?” Her mum called in from the living room. Martha laughed and grabbed the mostly-empty chocolate box, running for the sofa. 

**14/2/1983, Martha is 11**

“Hey Heather. What's up? Is Tricia not here or something? Do you need anything?” Martha grinned as Heather dropped down next to her and Veronica, who looked up from her homework in interest. 

Well, it was  _ actually _ Martha’s homework, but Veronica said she’d do it so Martha could get moved up to her class. 

“Actually, yeah. Can I, erm, just talk to Veronica for a minute?” It was then that Martha noticed Heather was squirming, but she moved to swap seats with her anyway, before Heather grimaced. 

“Alone.” She squirmed in her seat. ““It's nothing against you, I just -"

“You need some advice, right?” Martha smiled, pushing down the feeling of being left out until she couldn’t feel it anymore. Veronica was good at advice. “No juice, I'll go see if any of the teachers need help.”

“The saying is 'no sweat' Martha.” Veronica drawled, but Martha just laughed and skipped away towards the sandpit, watching from a distance. Veronica closed her book, then said something and opened it again. Mac looked scared, but walked away half-smiling. 

“What was she after?” Martha sat back down, trying to sound like she wasn’t prying. 

“Wow Martha, that’s so mean. Prying after a poor girl's secrets.” Veronica stared at her for a second, then burst into laughter. “Joking.”

But even the joke had made her feel awful. 

“Tricia’s being bullied by Heather Chandler and Mac is pretending not to know.”

“That’s horrible!” Martha’s eyes found Heather from across the playground, head down as she sat alone. Heather Chandler had been sat like that once. “Shouldn’t we do something?”

“No point. Best to just leave it.” Veronica went back to her homework for a second, then put it down and looked at Martha again. “I’m serious Martha. I know you have a huge heart, but it’s not worth it.”

“Right.”

But wasn’t she supposed to be kind to everyone? Help Heather and Tricia? 

She should have invited Heather Chandler over that lunchtime last year, stopped her from being lonely. Stopped her from being cruel. 

But then she would have made Veronica sad, so she still wouldn’t be kind…

Right?

**29/6/1983, Martha is 11**

Somebody was yelling. 

She could hear raised voices as she cracked open the front door, back from Veronica’s house. 

It was probably one of her dad’s films, the ones he would always turn off as soon as she walked in the room, telling her she could watch it ‘when she was older’.

“Is this even the first time Karen?” Wait, that was her dad's voice? He was probably yelling at the TV again. Martha grabbed a glass of water and headed towards the living room. 

“I didn’t sleep with him, Bill! It was a -” Her mum stopped short when she saw Martha standing there, puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, hands wound in her cooking apron. 

Why was her mum crying? 

“Go upstairs, Martha.” Her dad sounded cold. He was never like that to her. 

“O… Ok. Alright.” It was what he wanted, so she wasn’t going to argue with him. 

As she climbed the stairs, her parents lowered their voices but kept screaming at each other. 

Something about a lie. Loyalty. Only staying for her, Martha - whatever that meant. Eventually her mum was just crying, and her dad was silent. Then doors slammed and somebody ran up the stairs into the bathroom. 

Martha hated the silence. 

**9/9/1983, Martha is 11**

“Ok, ok. And this all happened after I left?” Veronica had been away with her grandparents the entire summer, so she didn’t know anything that had happened. 

“Yeah. My dad was gone for a  _ month _ , Ronnie! Any guesses on what happened?”

Veronica was biting her lip. She looked like she was holding something back. Martha hated it when she acted so -

No no, that was stupid. If Veronica didn’t want to say something, she didn’t have to say it. 

“Martha…” Veronica’s voice trailed off when another girl sat on the swings next to them, watching everybody. She was wearing a bright green dress, and Martha had never seen her before. 

“Hey, who’s that?” The girl asked them both, gesturing towards Heather Chandler. Martha saw Veronica roll her eyes and start swinging again. She probably wanted Martha to ignore the girl too. 

But she was new, so surely Martha should help her? Her mum would tell her yes, but her mum had been weird the whole summer. 

“I wouldn’t worry about them, if you just stay out of The Heather’s way then you’ll be fine.” Martha grinned at the girl, and Veronica laughed, swinging higher. Well, she could be mean if she wanted. 

Martha stuck out her hands towards the girl. She was pretty, with brown skin and black hair. ““I’m Martha. Are you the new girl?”

The new girl looked awkward, but she gripped Martha’s hand anyway. “Erm, yes, I am.” She kept looking over at the Heather’s. It was odd of Veronica to dismiss this girl, when she spent most of her time watching them too -

No, Veronica watched everyone. She preferred watching to involving herself with the others. Who was Martha to judge?

“Because that’s who they are.” Martha smiled, pulling her hand back. “Heather Chandler and Heather McNamara -”

But then suddenly Veronica grabbed Martha by the arm and yanked her away towards the big oak tree, not stopping until they were in the shade. 

“What did - are you ok?”

Veronica glared, but not  _ at _ Martha. She was looking past her. “Fantastic. Another one.”

Martha turned in confusion. Heather Chandler and McNamara were at the swings, staring down at the new girl, who was looking up in awe. 

“What do you mean, ‘another one’?” But Veronica was still glaring, arms crossed, so Martha just left it and started playing with the helicopter leaves littering the ground. 

She’d never understand what the Heather’s actually did, apart from be mean to people. But she and Veronica stayed out of their way, so that was okay. And they’d get their karma -

No wait, it wasn’t like Martha  _ wanted _ them to get karma. She wouldn’t wish harm on them, no matter how mean they were. 

As long as Martha was nice to everyone, she’d be fine. Everything would go back to normal soon. 

“What were you going to say earlier?” Veronica blinked, coming out of her daze to stare at Martha, cross-legged on the floor. “About my parents?”

“Oh. Right.” Veronica probably thought she had a straight face, but Martha could see her scratching her forearm. “I don’t remember. You wanna head home?”

She didn’t, she wanted to stay and play and talk, but Martha followed suit anyway. 

**19/11/1983, Martha is 12**

Her dad didn’t come home today. Her mum wouldn’t tell her anything. 

**25/11/1983, Martha is 12**

Martha spent Christmas at her Nan's house, but nobody would tell her what was going on. Her dad threw a fit when her mum got a christmas card from her boss. Her mum was crying under the tree that night. 

**6/2/1984, Martha is 12**

They were lying.

**14/4/1984, Martha is 12**

Everybody was lying. 

**21/4/1984, Martha is 12**

Her mum couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Be kind. 

**17/5/1984, Martha is 12**

No. 

**25/2/1984, Martha is 12**

No she didn’t  _ want _ to but she had to because that’s what they wanted but she didn’t want them to. 

**6/6/1984, Martha is 12**

Be kind be kind just smile tell the judge it was okay be kind be kind

**6/7/1984, Martha is 12**

Martha hadn’t seen her mum in a month. Her dad never spoke to her.

**19/7/1984, Martha is 12**

She broke down in school because her home was wrong and everything was wrong and the Heather’s wouldn’t leave her alone but they were all her fault and Veronica was hugging her but she didn’t understand and that was Martha’s fault but she could have warned Martha but Martha hadn’t pushed her so that was her fault and her dad wasn’t talking and she missed her mum and she wanted to understand and be kind be kind be kind…

**21/7/1984, Martha is 12**

Just do what they want and they’ll go away. Be nice. It’s not that bad. Be kind. They’ll get bored. Just eat and cry at home and eat and laugh at school and fill the hole with sugar because feelings sucked but she had to be kind to everyone or bad stuff would happen she couldn’t let the bad stuff happen again. 

**11/8/1984, Martha is 12**

Her dad was a liar and he didn’t understand and he was so sad and if she’d just been nicer…

**9/9/1984, Martha is 12**

Panic attacks from the stress of the divorce but the divorce was her fault so these were her fault and she could stop them and if she didn’t it was her fault and she was taking up the therapist’s time she had to stop or bad things would happen and WHY WAS IT SO HARD to just be nice be nice  _ be nice don’t stop _ she wanted to stop

**17/9/1984, Martha is 12**

She hated school but she wasn’t meant to hate anything so she pretended not to. It would be too mean to get Veronica involved, She couldn’t let the teachers down, let her dad down. Simple thoughts. Eat food sleep drink school cry repeat. No room to do anything bad bad bad maybe if she was good her mum would come back to them

**19/11/1984, Martha is 13**

…

…

She didn’t want to get out of bed. 

But it was her birthday. 

The medicine made things better but she felt so guilty taking it away from people who needed it more but she couldn’t let the doctors down. 

Veronica was coming to give her a present and Martha couldn’t let her down and it would be chocolate because it was always chocolate and Martha didn’t want to upset her by arguing but she was trying not to eat and everything was  _ awful _ but she could smile. Just smile. 

…

…

**24/6/1985, Martha is 13**

“I mean, it is a big deal for her.” Martha was braiding daisy chains, trying not to sound bitter. Bitter was bad. “You’re her only child, and now you’re some supe r-genius.”

Veronica rolled her eyes, and snorted. “Yeah right.” The twisted part of Martha wanted to jump to her feet and scream that at least she  _ had _ a mother that wasn’t a liar and a whore and a -

Stop stop. Breathe. 

No bad thoughts. 

“So the final’s being held here then?” She smiled, trying to turn the conversation away from family, but not being too forceful.

“Yep. Cutler Hall, I think. But I really don’t want to do it.” Veronica replied, rolling the grass stalks through her fingers and staring up at the other kids. 

“Wait, what? I thought you enjoyed the other ones?” Martha didn’t even know what she was saying. She just floated through conversations, saying whatever the other person wanted. 

But Martha would have given anything to be Veronica. Sweet, cynical Veronica, who always had her back and had a family and was smart and thought karma was a bunch of bullshit. Veronica who thought that Martha sometimes acted like a human high on faerie glamour, Veronica who watched the Heather’s and laughed at them and was really mean sometimes, just like them. 

“Ok, yeah, but I enjoyed beating the swats. The know-it-alls who thought just because they’re from California they’re automatically superior. Side note, I can’t believe my mum took us all the way to fucking California -” Martha knew her face had fallen and tried to pull it back again, but the swears made her just think about her stupid  _ stupid _ mother who lied and “Sorry, bloody California, and we didn’t even go to the Grand Canyon.”

Martha took a deep breath. 

“You could be up against swots this time, though.” She tried to smile, but then felt like she was going to throw up. Was she insulting them by calling them swots? Why couldn’t everyone just talk for her so she could make no mistakes?

Veronica said something, but Martha was digging her nails into her palm and wondering if the pain would hurt more than the pain of not wanting to breathe because it was taking somebody else's air. She went back to her daisy chains. Veronica had initiated the silence. She wanted the silence. Martha could hold her breath to stop it being wasted. 

“Look at them, Mar. The perfect trio.”

Martha jumped, sucking in a massive gulp of air. She didn’t want to talk about the Heather’s. She didn’t want to  _ think _ about the Heather’s. 

“Sometimes I think you’re obsessed with the Heather’s, Veronica.” Martha looked down at her daisy chain, trying to breathe and trying not to breathe at the same time. 

She was hungry, but other people needed the food she usually had for breakfast but her dad would just throw the spare food away and everything was a waste and that would make him bad and them all bad and 

And…

Today was a bad day.

**7/7/1985, Martha is 13**

“So, tell me when you had the last major attack.” Dr Carrol smiled at her from behind tortoiseshell glasses, brown hair piled high in a messy yet professional bun. She was young for a therapist, but Martha liked her. 

Of course, Martha didn’t want to let her down. But theoretically, telling Dr Carrol about every single issue would burden her more, and burden both of them, so a white lie to prevent bigger issues; that was okay, right?

Right?

…

Breathe. 

“A couple of weeks ago.” Officially, Dr Carrol was dealing with the trauma left over from the messy divorce that took up almost all of 1984. Unofficially, she treated Martha’s anxiety. Or that’s what her dad said to her grandparents, prompting her to throw up in the toilet later that evening because she was always a burden and could never help anybody and-

…

Just  _ breathe _ . 

“And what caused it? Do you know?”

“Yeah, I, erm… I was looking for a movie and I found one that my mum and I always used to watch.” That wasn’t a lie. But it happened yesterday. Martha forced herself to walk all the way to the charity store and thoroughly clean the video before she let it go, then she threw up in a gas station bathroom on the way back. 

“Ok. How did seeing this video make you feel? Did you miss your mother, or miss what you two used to have?” Dr Carrol had instructed Martha’s dad to block any attempt at contact from her mother until Martha could be weaned off of the medication. 

That had too many implications, so she just took the pills and smiled for the entire next day until she ripped her gums. 

“I… missed her.”

Dr Carrol raised an eyebrow. 

“And?” She always let Martha talk, expand on what she was thinking. Martha hated that. If you think too much there are just so  _ so _ many things that you’re doing wrong for everybody.

“I… missed being a kid.”

“What did you miss about that?” Dr Carrol was smiling, but Martha could feel the scratching at the back of her throat and a smile couldn’t fix everything that she was doing wrong. 

“I’m not really sure.”

But she was sure.

Oh she was sure. 

Innocence. Not seeing things. Not knowing things. Ignoring everything. Being nice just because. Not forcing herself to starve. Not forcing herself to smile. Throwing up, but keeping going. Studying with no paper because other people needed paper. Never letting Veronica do her homework even when she was overwhelmed and behind because Veronica had other things to do. 

…

She couldn’t tell Dr Carrol that.

…

Just breathe. 

…

Stop breathing too much. 

…

_ Breathe _ . 

…

Every day was a bad day now. 

…

It was her fault…

**19/11/1985, Martha is 14**

A card had come through the post twenty minutes ago. 

It wasn’t from Veronica; she didn’t do cards, she just left you a present with a fancy label. Her dad had given her a small one, written in pencil, that had made her sob as she erased it ready to give it away. 

Martha had tried to ignore it at first. She’d watched the special tv programs and waited for her grandparents to come round for dinner later, where she would eat and smile. 

But to leave it on the mat would be a waste, and undoubtedly annoy the sender. 

So she opened it, using a kitchen knife to get under the sticky parts and almost cutting off her finger in the process. But this way the envelope could be reused.

The front said her name, and their address. A card fell out, black with ‘merry christmas’ written in gold. 

Maybe it was from a grandparent? Or a friend of her -

Wait, if it was for her dad then he would want to open the card himself and it would be bad for her to do it. But he might get angry because her name was on the envelope so it might be for her so she would just be wasting his time and -

…

Ok. She could just open the top of the card, very slightly, and see who it was addressed to. Even though the envelope said her name, it might be for her father or it might be for both of them but then surely the duty to open it would still go to her father but again he might be annoyed at her for bothering -

…

The top of the card said ‘Dear Martha’, but she’d already dropped it and ran to the sink by the time it fell to the floor. 

She knew that handwriting. 

She hadn’t eaten anything this morning; nothing was coming out except for spit. Martha gagged, trying to get her thoughts under control - which was impossible on a regular day. 

They weren’t supposed to make contact her dad was supposed to be blocking things but her dad was on a work call so did her mum know that Martha would get the card and not him was she in Westerburg had she been to their house before how many times had she tried to reach Martha did her dad get jealous why did her mum want to talk to her would she just heap even more blame she wasn’t supposed to talk to her FOR ONCE THIS HADN’T BEEN HER PROBLEM no she should have made it her problem she should have been more prepared she should have recognised the writing on the envelope but it wasnt her mum's writing did her mum have somebody else already was Martha supposed to go and meet them did her mum expect everything to go back to normal did her mum even know about the pills and the attacks and the puking and the overeating and why could people just leave her ALONE was that so much to ask she should just be left alone then she could never hurt anyone and never cause any problems but she would still be breathing maybe her mum was coming to end it all that was probably the best option but her body would still be there they should throw it in a ditch and then she could rot away like she was rotting away now and everything was awful and WHY DID HER MUM HAVE TO DO THIS why why why why why why why why why why why

…

...

…

**11/3/1986, Martha is 14**

School. 

It wasn’t that fearsome, really. But it looked different if you hadn’t been for four months. 

According to her father, Martha had been sticking her fingers down her throat trying to make herself throw up, sobbing and screaming with the card at her feet. She scratched up the inside of her mouth and spent two months in hospital. New meds, longer sessions with Dr Carrol - and yeah, it was getting better. She could do more things and the attacks came less frequently. Veronica had visited her, but Martha didn’t want to worry her so let the doctors talk about how divorce affects young children. 

Four months. 

Martha was sitting on the steps, hand in her pockets as she clutched the bottle of pills she carried everywhere. There were tears in her eyes, but that was normal. She was chubbier, but according to the doctors that was a good thing. She’d been starving herself so much, and had always just been fat - though of course the doctors hadn’t called her that - due to genetics or something - that it was easy to tell that she was starving. They got her to eat, and then said in a couple years she could start diets and exercises, so long as they knew she wouldn’t try again. 

They’d thrown a lot of terms around in the hospital. Anorexia, bulimia, thought spirals, anxiety, OCD - though that had been ruled out - and more fancy psychological terms she just couldn’t remember. 

Martha suddenly realised a shadow had fallen over her. She dried her eyes, staring up at Kurt Kelly, complete with ripped jeans, bruised knuckles and a scowl. They’d been friends when they were younger; vague friends, not close but somebody to sit with. Then he’d changed almost overnight from a shy nerd to a delinquent - or maybe he hadn’t done it  _ overnight _ , maybe she’d just been gone too long. 

“Oh, hey Kurt. Long time no see, huh?” Martha tried not to sniff as his scowl deepened. She didn’t really want to know why he was late, but he was very clearly lonely, according to Veronica. 

“Right, well, you’re in my way Martha.” She moved on instinct, but then what he’d said hit her. 

“Thank you, Kurt.” She smiled, stopping him in his tracks as he turned to her in confusion. “The fuck for?”

“For not calling me Dumptruck.” Martha smiled, but it was probably undermined by her red eyes. Dumptruck had been going around for so long, probably started by Heather Duke because it was too small for Heather Chandler, that some people thought it was literally her surname. Everybody called her it, except for Veronica. She’d looked at herself in the mirror this morning and supposed it was only going to get worse for the next couple years, but she didn’t want to bother correcting people. She’d let the doctors down if she listened to them, and she’d much rather do what they told her to than her peers. 

That was a new thing Dr Carrol was trying. Say there’s a situation where you could affect two people, or ‘bother them’. You have to decide who it’s more important to please. Dr Carrol said that eventually she’d be able to stop trying to please everyone; it would stop being ‘compulsive’, but for now this was a start.

“I expected it from you.” Martha added, pulling herself up from the stone. Maybe she could speak her mind because she remembered the little boy with red earmuffs. “I see the fights you start, though I don’t stay around to watch.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but then the doors swung open and Martha grimaced at who came through. 

Ram Sweeney. Veronica had plenty of theories about him, from abusive parents to egocentrism - whatever that was. But Martha just preferred to stay out of his way. It had been so refreshing to not deal with the Heather’s or him for the last four months. 

“You’re kidding, right?” Another guy from their year, Detroit, laughed over Kurt;s shoulder. He was so loud it made Martha wince. “Dumptruck bagged Kelly?

“Her parents probably paid for it.” Somebody else laughed, but that just made a tear fall down her face. 

Parents. Plural.

Martha zoned out for a second, then felt herself fall back onto the stone, slamming into the steps. She blinked, but everybody was laughing and she had no idea who’d pushed her. Kurt had said something. Ram was laughing -  _ Ram _ . Her first kiss. 

Her ears were ringing as she watched them all go. 

Martha grunted, trying to pull herself up. There was a graze on her elbow. Veronica would be waiting for her - but not till lunch because they weren’t in class together. 

She pushed open the school doors, cradling her elbow and staring down at the tiles that reflected back a red-eyes, puffy haired, crying fat girl. 

Martha found her way to the bathroom, cleaning her elbow with a wet paper towel and taking the cardigan out of her bag so it couldn’t be seen. Veronica would ask too many questions. 

Surely she could just wait in here till next period. The teachers knew she’d been hospitalised; the principal said Martha was under no obligation to come in until she’d been cleared and surely her teacher would understand why she was late. 

“Holy shit.” Heather Duke wore a shit-eating grin as she stood in the bathroom door. Martha winced as Heather and Heather appeared behind her. 

“Move, Heather.” Heather Chandler ran a hand through her curls as she smiled down at Martha - she smiled down at  _ everyone _ in those heels. “Hello Dumptruck. We heard you had a little… accident.”

Martha clutched her bag tighter. They were all smiling. It felt like a horror movie. 

“Or, was it  _ really _ an accident?” Chandler leant against the sink, looking like a perfume model straight from LA. “After all, you’ve been so…  _ depressed _ since your mummy left.”

“She didn’t just leave.” Duke smirked, face brightening when Chandler chuckled. Veronica would probably have picked up on that, but Martha just stared at the floor and tried to disappear. 

“I thought they got divorced?” Mac chimed in, holding a compact mirror and a tube of lipstick. Why couldn’t they have gone to the upstairs bathroom? Why had Martha even come into school? 

“Who did she cheat on your dad with?” Chandler laughed again, standing up straight. She always knew everything and Martha had no idea how. “I heard it was your neighbour.”

“I heard it was her boss.”

“Maybe it was both.” When had Mac become cruel? Martha had been gone for so long. 

“Excuse me.” She muttered, pushing past them to the door, but then she felt Chandler’s hand on her waist. She jumped, but the blonde was already holding the bottle of pills by the tips of her red nails, smiling like an angel.

“Heather-”

“Shut  up , McNamara.” Martha was surprised Mac had even tried to defend her. By the look on her face, she’d clearly had problems with bottles just like the one Heather and Heather were currently ogling. 

“And  _ what _ is going on here?” Miss Fleming stood in the door, hands on her hips. Martha let out a quiet sigh of relief, but Heather Chandler had already wiped the smirk off of her face. 

“I’m sure you heard about, you know, everything.” She lowered her voice, placing a hand on Martha’s elbow. “I found these in the hallway, and we saw Martha going into the bathroom, so we all wanted to make sure she was doing okay after coming back to school.”

Sometimes Martha would watch Heather Chandler play nice for the teachers and imagine what it would be like if Heather  _ was _ actually a good person. 

“Oh, well, get to class -” The bell rung, cutting Miss Fleming off as Duke laughed quietly from behind. “Just, go on girls.”

And then she left. Of  _ course _ she left. 

But then Martha almost screamed as Heather leant over and poured the bottle into the sink. 

“Maybe she’ll throw a total-”

“Shut  _ up _ , Heather.”

And then they left, with Martha scrabbling at the sink, trying to find just one pill so she could breathe again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #MarthaDeservedBetter
> 
> Next time we begin the bonus chapter sections; look forward to death (*hint hi - wait that's not really a hint when it comes to Heathers is it?)
> 
> [ say hi :) ](http://scones-and-slushies.tumblr.com/)  
x


	8. Could You Be Seen With Me And Still Act Proud?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit!  
Holy shit!  
Holy shit!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> It's been a while. Whoops. I guess all of... this (quarantine, politics, etc etc) affected me more than I thought it would, plus I have GCSE's in... well soon. I have them soon. 
> 
> (For anybody not in England, GCSE's are the first big sets of exams we take that qualify us for higher education like uni)
> 
> So, the update schedule will be chaos, but I'm back now, with the promised bonus chapters taken from canon Heather's moments. Lets go :)

_ Are you a Heather? _

Veronica couldn’t get those words out of her head. 

She wasn’t…

But she was.

Maybe not in name, but everybody else thought she was now. They saw in, in outfits chosen by Chandler, walking down the centre of the corridor, standing by and even partaking in what could loosely be called “bullying” -  _ loosely _ since they never targeted the same person for more than a week before getting bored and circling back in a month or so.

Not that she’d been with them for a month. Veronica just knew the pattern. 

This was what she fucking wanted, right? This was why she’d started to only wear blue (actually that had been an unconscious choice that she’d only noticed after Martha commented on it, but whatever), why she watched Heather Duke in class and tried to see if she would break the act, whilst never being able to push the thought out of her head that she could have taken her place. 

It was stupid, really. 

Heather, Heather and Heather. That was it. Veronica was just a tag-along. An honorary member of the most elite circle Westerburg had to offer. The Roderigo to Chandler’s Iago, to be used and removed when convenient.

But that day on the swing…

What if, instead of running away, abandoning Duke to the future she probably only thought she wanted, she’d talked back. (Somehow) impressed Chandler. 

Then it would never have been Heather, Heather and Heather. 

It would have been Heather,  _ Veronica _ and Heather. 

God, she was such a fucking idiot. 

Why was this no-name kid pissing her off so much?

Probably because he reminded her of a boy she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about recently. 

Ever since that fated day in the bathroom. 

It was ironic. If she’d taken Duke’s place, she would never have met him. But it was thanks to him that she was in the Heathers now, and they wouldn’t get rid of her for a while. Forgery was a useful talent. 

One she’d just used to ruin the life of her best friend…

(Well, not her  _ life _ . That was the thing that Veronica loved about high school. You panic about a spilled drink on an outfit, it’s the worst thing in the world - for like two days. Teenagers had short attention spans. It was funny really.)

He hadn’t liked that. The boy with no name who’d played along.

If anybody could see her right now, they’d think she was a psycho. Furiously pacing in the corridor outside the canteen, questioning all of her life choices because apparently she was fucked-up in the head today -

Two gunshots startled her from her thoughts. They were followed by screams and yells. 

Against every instinct, Veronica ran through the doors, only to be stopped by a gaggle of bodies gathered in a circle. 

All she could see through the pack was a boy lying face-down, football jacket on display. 

Her ridiculous first thought was that nobody would miss a jock, before he groaned and moved and Veronica realised there was no blood in sight. 

“Where the fuck did you go?” Heather Duke punched Veronica on the arm, standing on her toes to see over everybody in front of them. Veronica noticed absently that her shiny black curls were actually nicer than Chandlers, but because curls were Chandler’s thing, Duke relaxed her hair most days.

It was both amusing and tragic, when she noticed these things the more time she spent with the Heathers. It made them human, yes, but also made them teenagers, and all Veronica could think about then was how much she’d idolised them. 

“I heard -”

“Oh yeah, that new psycho you were talking to earlier fired blanks at Kurt and Ram.  _ Look _ , Veronica.”

Look she did. 

It was Ram on the floor, holding his most-likely-broken-but-certainly-bleeding nose, clearly too weak to move and trying to play it off as letting Kurt take the bastard down by himself. 

“Erm, the new kid” - she didn’t want to let Duke realise she knew his name and actually cared enough to remember - “looks like he’s winning.”

“ _ Please _ , bitch. It’s Kurt. He’s got muscles under that jersey.”

Veronica decided not to ask how she knew that, because far she knew they’d never dated, but maybe she’d forgotten. Kurt dated - or fucked and dumped - a lot.

The new kid was definitely winning. 

“Did you see?” Mac appeared round the other side of her, and for a second Veronica was so preoccupied by the realisation that she was standing exactly where Chandler would stand between them that she almost missed what Mac said next. “He beat Ram with a  _ book _ .”

Huh. Which one?

Veronica cast a sideways glance at Mac, who clearly wasn’t enjoying watching (the opposite of Duke, who looked like a soccer mum at her kids first game of the season) but knew if Chandler, from wherever she was, saw then it would come back to bite her hard in the arse. 

Why was it that when she saw boys fight it looked so horrible - yet felt so… right. 

Seeing JD face down Kurt whilst Ram struggled on the floor, Veronica could admit three things to herself. 

First, watching Kurt and Ram, the people who’d bullied her and Martha for years, being mercilessly trashed by a total stranger was  _ extremely _ satisfying.

Second, even though the fighting looked like shit, it would probably knock them both down a few pegs and maybe be better in the long run. 

And third, she probably had a thing for bad boys but was definitely attracted to this no-name kid.

“Like a pack of animals.” Heather Chandler sniffed from behind, and Veronica automatically moved to make room, hating herself for it. That wasn’t who she was. 

“Damn Veronica, you might be right.” Duke grinned, sliding an arm around her blue shoulder-pads. At moments like this she could almost pretend they were a normal group of friends. “The psycho might win.”

Duke was right. Damn…

Veronica couldn’t help but wonder how this kid would feel knowing she was imagining him defending her instead. 

After all, she was dependent on Heather Chandler's generosity and reputation, as if her life was some kind of twisted matriarch situation where instead of giving milk the demon queen gave beauty and popularity. 

Yeah, Veronica had self-esteem issues. She was fine with addressing it. If people could just address their flaws (not  _ get over _ , address, because getting over flaws was bullshit) (plus she didn’t think her self-esteem was a flaw; it helped in embarrassing situations) the world would run a lot smoother. 

But this no-name kid…

He clearly didn’t give a shit. Which was probably a bad thing for her, because people who didn’t give a shit weren’t likely to want to hang out with one of the Heather’s, a girl who dropped her best friend for popularity, like a teenage Brutus. 

Ram had managed to drag himself up from the linoleum, nose still dripping, but the black-haired boy didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he seemed half excited to beat the shit out of somebody else and half annoyed the fight was going on for this long. This kid could punch real good - Ram liked to brag, but nobody fought back against him anymore.

“Holy shit.” She heard a student mutter in front of them, which made Heather Chandler roll her eyes. 

If somebody was listening to her inner thoughts, they’d probably think she sounds like a silly little child, wanting this boy to fight for her. Knowing that she’d probably fight for him, because apparently her heart's greatest desire led her to criminals, fraudsters and delinquents. 

Oh well. You couldn’t be a child for long anyway. Having a crush wasn’t going to kill anybody.

Besides, she could never beat him. It had been the same thing with Cupid, when she was 14 (a lifetime ago). He was from the opposite end of the country, and now she was a Heather. Heathers didn’t date underdogs, nerds and weirdos. It was social suicide. 

He could protect her, that much was obvious as Ram crashed to the floor again. Kurt was still wobbling on his knees. But boys who carried blanks and punched with obvious expertise weren’t very good at filling the role of Prince Charming. 

The no-name kid smiled, putting a hand to Kurt's bleeding forehead, almost like he was checking his temperature. Veronica was amazed he’d lasted this good. 

Her amazement must have shown on her face, because when he looked out into the crowd and their  eyes met, he broke into a shit-eating grin and winked before shoving Kurt hard into the floor and walking away through a crowd that parted like the Red Sea. 

Heather Chandler didn’t like that. The crowd only parted for her, and those she deemed worthy. The three of them melted away, but Veronica stayed, staring after the trench coat as it vanished between the double doors. 

Damn, if this kid had a free night, she would seek him out. Wreak havoc. Burn some shit. Could be fun. 

The crowd moved around her, and in between the holy shits she could hear being muttered by pretty much everybody, Kurt and Ram were groaning as teachers rushed over. 

If this kid was still alive…

If he hadn’t had his ass handed to him by Kurt and Ram soon, if Heather Chandler didn’t ruin him forever with an attack you can’t fight back from, if she was somehow still a Heather, if he didn’t hate her for what they all said. 

If he was still alive…

She would totally watch him start another fight for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These ones probably will be shorter, because I can only stretch a three minute song for so long, but I hope you enjoy them. I have another, different fic planned, for *insert random release date*, and it takes place after everything, sort of ish, but is just as dark and twisted as these stories, so if you like you can consider them the backstory to that fic too.
> 
> Something to note: I owe my soul to the notes section on Genius, so go check that out if you like song evaluation or whatever. Helpful tip: if you're doing poetry for GCSE's, they have analysis of that too 
> 
> [ say hi :) ](http://scones-and-slushies.tumblr.com/)  
x


	9. You Can Fly With Eagles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather cried, our sins fell on her shoulders!  
Heather died, so we could all be free!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Heather Chandler's POV!
> 
> And yes, this is the dialogue from the movie because it was just easier to find. And yes, it was a struggle to fit corn nuts in there.

Heather was sleeping. 

Alone. 

Of course, most nights she spent in company, but people didn’t need to know that. You could be a slut in the winter and a saint in the summer - or it was something like. Her mother had a fondness for spouting philosophical bullshit.

She was actually dreaming, probably because she was subconsciously trying to avoid the pounding hangover she knew she’d suffer from once she woke. Heather tried not to get completely wasted, but last night had been an adventure. 

And of course the stains weren’t coming out of her shoes. 

That little bitch was going to  _ pay _ .

Heather was on a bench swing, attached to some tree in a forest she didn’t recognise, but what self-respecting socialite queen goes traipsing through fields anyway?

She was dressed in clothes she hadn’t worn since she was a child, miraculously grown to fit her. Socks with lace cuffs, red polka-dot dress and scrunchie. 

Red, even back then. 

Children were playing in the field as she swung, most unknown but some she recognised. Heather and Heather playing with a skipping rope, smiling like she’d never seen them smile around her. 

Well, who cared if they didn’t smile around her? She didn’t ask for friends. She asked for minions, and they were happy to oblige; glossed lips and shiny hair in tight dresses of the right colour. Heather hadn’t made an attempt to notice them, or care about their struggles. 

Kurt and Ram were playing football, which was entirely unrealistic, since Kurt had been a nobody until, what, three years ago? He wasn’t causing any trouble, so Heather just let him be. Another jock to notch her bedpost, or whatever. 

Veronica was sitting reading some paperback, Dumptruck next to her with that stupid smile plastered over her fat face.

Some people were just too disgusting to live. That’s what her mum said. 

Though, with the way she’d let herself go recently, Mrs Chandler could probably fit into that category. Still, even if your husband was openly cheating on you, appearance mattered if you wanted to deny some of the gossip. 

Heather wanted to get off, to play with them even though they all looked like they had in fifth grade (she hadn’t even  _ known _ some of them in fifth grade), but then she realised she was higher than all of them, like she was their leader. So she just kept swinging, watching.

Then Kurt and Ram left. Then Dumptruck. She didn’t really care. 

Then Heather and Heather. She only called them back once, because Veronica was watching and it looked weak, even if they were ignoring her. Heather could just punish them later.

Then Veronica started to go, and she found herself running after her, pushing through crowds of people until she was a child again - no makeup on her face, no product in her hair, no perfect nails and designer clothes. Her childhood had probably been the shortest out of everybody in Westerburg. Royalty demanded sacrifice. 

But Heather didn’t stop to look at herself, she just ran until Veronica was too far away to make out. She screamed, but nobody heard her. 

She cried, but nobody saw her. 

She begged, but nobody was around to care.

“Morning Heather.”

She blinked, opening her eyes to find, of all people, Veronica at the edge of her bed.

For a moment all she could think about was that dream. 

But that moment was gone quickly, and her lips were already moving to form a sneer.

“Veronica.” Heather had trained her voice, made sure a wobble or a crack never betrayed her. The mask was important. One little mistake could push her off the pedestal forever, and there was always a desperate bitch waiting in the wings. 

Heather could easily picture one desperate bitch with a green scrunchie in her hair.

“And Jesse James.” She inwardly rolled her eyes at the boy in the black trench coat, trying so hard to be a criminal. Why the fuck was he with Veronica?

Were they… a  _ thing _ now?

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

“Quelle surprise.” Heather smiled, thinking back on the french model who’d stayed in their house for two months recently. Come to think of it, that had been around the time her mother had started to lose it. French was supposed to be romantic, sexual. She’d resolved to become fluent.

For a moment, she could see a girl with pink lips and pale skin, forever immortalised in pathetic photographs, but she blinked, forcing that memory out her head. “Hear about Veronica’s affection for regurgitation?”

Heather didn’t like the look they gave each other. 

“Heather.” Veronica said in that voice that always pissed her off until she started to use it to her advantage, because no matter how desperate the wielder, it always made you think she was right. “I think last night we both said a lot of stuff we didn’t mean.”

Was this bitch  _ serious _ ? 

“Did we?” Heather resisted the urge to turn her head, to check if the house gate was still shut. “How the hell did you get in here?”

“Um, Veronica knew you’d have a hangover, so , uh, I whipped this up for you. It’s a family recipe” He sounded like an absolute idiot. And she couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t answered her question. 

If he thought she’d trust him, this kid was as naive as he pretended not to be.

“What did you do?” She said, raising an eyebrow and pulling the scrunchie out of her hair. “Put a phlegm globber in it or something? I’m not gonna drink that piss.”

Another shared look. This was starting to fucking piss her off. Trust Veronica to give her V card to some stranger who thought it was clever to shoot blanks in a school canteen.

“I knew this stuff would be too intense for her.” The psycho smiled, and god he had zero charm. What did Veronica see in this fucker?

Heather laughed, slipping out of bed to face him. “Intense. Grow up. You think I’ll drink it just because you call me chicken?”

She wasn’t a child. The psycho raised his eyebrow. 

He had confidence, she’d give him that. Of course, he’d only been around here for a day, so she couldn’t expect him to know who she was. Nobody talked to her like this anymore. 

For fucks sake. She hated arrogant jerks. Her father had ruined that stereotype.

“Just give me the cup jerk.” Heather rolled her eyes, downing it in one gulp. 

Her head spun immediately, and her eyes went black. Somebody was screaming. It felt like her whole body was on fire

_ Is it Tricia… I’m the only person who could ever love you… Pretty is better… Red is my colour… What are you going to do... I’m Heather Duke… You should feel special… Don’t make me regret praising you… Decided to stop being a pussy then, Heather… They should get the bitch put down… Shut the fuck up, Heather… We heard you had a little accident… They all want me as a friend or a fuck… _

Friend…

She staggered, pushing past silhouettes and shapes and blurs and screams. Somebody had done this to her. Somebody was laughing. Somebody was going to pay. 

_ “Don’t you look stunning.” Her mum smiled, pulling at her curls. “It’s lucky for you that straight is out.” _

_ “But mummy, if straight was in last week -” _

_ “I’m trying to teach how to be a part of the world, Heather, not just a pawn. And none of this mummy bullshit. Makes me feel too old.” _

_ Her father was in the doorway then, and they were all smiling. Heather knew her family weren’t quite normal, but at least they were a team… _

Family…

Was that Veronica laughing? That stupid bitch. Heather remembered her handing over that book, the Bell Jar or some bullshit. Was that it, on her nightstand? Had she kept it all these years? She was going to beat Veronica over the head with it. 

_ “But who was she, daddy?” Heather watched the nice woman with the puffy hair and the red coat walk away down their driveway. She’d given her sweets for her seventh birthday. Heather had laughed, and so had her dad. He didn’t really laugh like that much. _

_ “Nobody, dear. Just a friend.” Her dad pulled her into a hug, and she felt him slip something into her pocket. “How about we keep this our little secret, huh?” _

_ And then she’d forgotten all about it, because she was too busy buying sweets with her new money… _

Money…

Her parents were only together for money. She could pay somebody to stop this pain. There was a fire in her eyes and somebody was strangling her, squeezing all the air out of her lungs. 

Is this what dying felt like?

_ “Corn nuts!” She shouted out of the window, watching Veronica hobble away. The girl needed to learn to walk in heels.  _

_ “BQ or plain?” The brunette shouted back, like it was even a fucking question.  _

_ “BQ!” _

_ Heather fell back inside the car, drumming her fingers on the dash. The bitch better not mess this up. She hadn’t adopted a total newbie only to have the girl ruin the reputation she’d spent years building in a single night.  _

_ She pulled down the mirror, fiddling with her curls until they sat right. Then her lips, then her cheeks - it was all basically perfect anyway, but checking everything over never caused too many problems.  _

_ Besides, Veronica was taking way too fucking long. Heather had a craving… _

“Corn nuts.” She felt herself croak, and then glass shattered and everything stopped. 

It was just dark. 

Peace.

There was… nothing. 

Heather tried to hold on, but the memories were slipping past her. She could see faces blurring like photographs in the rain; Heather and Heather, there then gone and she couldn’t even remember her own name, let alone the names of two random girls. 

Veronica… but who was Veronica?

Her parents… but she didn’t have parents. She had nobody. 

She was alone. 

And alone - after all this time, after everything that she couldn’t remember- felt pretty nice, if she was being honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a little story to why this took a while to upload, and surprise surprise it's not a second UK lockdown!
> 
> I hate everyone.
> 
> But the reason is a 3 AM fever dream that led me to spend an entire day planning yet another heather's fic, except this one is a comedy. Honestly I'm super excited, so that will probably come out after this is over, and I'll postpone the release of my other one a little longer.
> 
> So there's that :)
> 
> [ say hi :) ](http://scones-and-slushies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
